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ESSAYS  ON 
MODERN  DRAMATISTS 


BY 

WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS 

The  Twentieth  Century  Theatre 

Essays   on  Modern  Novelists 

Essays  on  Russian  Novelists 

Essays  on  Books 

Reading  the  Bible 

Teaching  in  School  and  College 

The    Advance    of    the    English 
Novel 

The  Advance  op  English  Poetry 
IN  THE  Twentieth  Century 

Archibald  Marshall 

Browning:     How  to  Know  Him 

The  Beginnings  of  the  English 
Romantic  Movement 


ESSAYS  ON 
MODERN  DRAMATISTS 


BY 

WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS 

Lampson  Professor  of  English  Literature 
at  Yale 


Il3eto  gorb 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1921 

AU  rights  reserved 


m 

>S41 


Oopyriftht,  1920  and  1921 

By  the  north  AMERICAN  REVIEW  PUBLISHING 
COMPANY. 

Copyright,   1920  and  1921 
By  the  YALE  PUBLISHING  ASSOCIATION. 

Copyright,  1920 

By  THE   NEW  YORK   EVENING  POST   PUBLISHING 
COMPANY 

COPYKIGHT,    1921, 

By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published    February,  1921 


TO 

ARTHUR  TWINING  HADLEY 

PRESIDENT  OF   YALE   UNIVERSITY 

1899  —  1921 
WITH  LOYALTY  AND  AFFECTION 


439825 


PREFACE 

I  have  not  selected  these  dramatists  be- 
cause I  believe  them  to  be  exclusively  the 
best,  but  because  I  chose  to  write  about  them. 
Their  work  interests  me,  and  they  are  mod- 
ern. Four  of  them  are  alive,  and  the  other 
two  ought  to  be. 

The  last  thirty  years  will  probably  be  re- 
garded by  future  historians  as  a  great  cre- 
ative period  in  the  drama.  Perhaps  con- 
temporary criticism  gains  in  intimacy  what 
it  loses  in  authority.  If  some  of  the  Eliza- 
bethans had  only  written  less  about  Seneca, 
and  more  about  Shakespeare ! 

W.  L.  P. 

Yale  University 
Tuesday,  4  January  1921 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I    J.  M.  Barrie   . 1 

II    George  Bernard  Shaw 67 

III  John  Galsworthy 99 

IV  Clyde  Fitch 142 

^     V    Maurice  Maeterlinck 179 

VI    Edmond  Rostand 229 


ESSAYS  ON 
MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

J.  M.  BARBIE 

Perhaps  the  most  intelligent  attitude  to 
take  toward  the  plays  of  J.  M.  Barrie  is  un- 
conditional surrender.  If  one  unreservedly 
yields  one's  mind  and  heart  to  their  enfold- 
ing charm,  then  one  will  understand  them. 
Otherwise  never.  Understanding  of  many 
things  comes  only  through  submission.  A 
work  of  art  is  as  sublime  as  a  work  of  nature ; 
no  one  can  appreciate  natural  scenery  with- 
out yielding  to  it.  Men  with  beam-eyes  are 
always  looking  for  motes.  We  know  that 
there  are  human  creatures  who  find  the  Grand 
Canyon  of  the  Colorado  disappointing. 

For  it  is  an  unfortunate  fact  that  many 
persons  lack  the  blessed  gift  of  admiration. 
These  self-deceived  worthies  imagine  that 
their  powers  of  criticism  are  sharpened  by 
the  absence  of  enthusiasm,  when  they  are 
really  destroyed.     Tolstoi   was   one   of  the 

1 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

first  creative  artists  and  one  of  the  last 
critics.  His  absurdity  as  a  critic  rose  from 
his  lack  of  admiration,  from  his  inability  to 
surrender.  He  often  complained  that  friends 
would  not  listen  to  him  when  he  tried  to  con- 
vince them  that  Shakespeare  was  a  bad 
writer.  **I  spoke  to  Turgenev  about  it,  and 
he  would  not  argue;  he  only  turned  sadly 
away.''  Naturally;  he  was  sorry  for  Tol- 
stoi. Why  argue  with  a  blind  man  who  in- 
sists there  is  nothing  in  the  world  worth 
looking  at? 

J.  M.  Barrie  is  the  foremost  English-writ- 
ing dramatist  of  our  time,  and  his  plays, 
taken  together,  make  the  most  important  con- 
tributiQn  to  the  English  drama  since  Sheri- 
dan. He  unites  the  chief  qualities  of  his  con- 
temporaries, and  yet  the  last  word  to  describe 
his  work  would  be  the  word  Qfilfifilic-  For  he 
•  is  the  most  original  of  them  all.  He  has  the 
intellectual  grasp  of  Galsworthy,  the  moral, 
earnestness  of  Jones,  the  ironical  mirth  of 
Synge,  the  unearthly  fantasy  of  Dunsany, 
the  consistent  logic  of  Ervine,  the  'w^it  of 
Shaw,  the  technical  excellence  of  Pinero.  In 
addition  to  these  qualities,  he  has  a  combi- 
nation of  charm  and  tenderness  possessed  by 

2 


J.  M.  BARRIE 

no  other  man.  I  am  aware  that  the  last  two 
sentences  will  seem  to  many  readers  mere 
hyperbole.  I  will  refer  such  doubters  to  the 
published  plays. 

Years  ago,  that  grand  old  golfer,  Harry 
Vardon,  said,  **It  is  easier  to  make  a  repu- 
tation than  to  keep  it.'*  This  truth  applies 
to  works  of  art  as  well  as  to  golf.  Think 
how  enormously  the  reputation  made  by  The 
Little  Miyiister  was  heightened  by  The  Ad- 
mirable  Crichton,  Peter  Pan,  and  What 
Every  Woman  Knows!  Every  woman  knows 
now  that  while  no  one  will  be  able  to  guess 
the  theme  of  Barrie's  next  play,  nor  its  con- 
clusion after  the  first  act,  it  will  be  worth 
seeing  and  hearing,  it  will  not  disappoint. 
It  is  something  to  have  maintained  a  high 
level  of  production  for  twenty-three  years, 
and  to  have  gained  the  confidence  of  hun- 
dreds of  thousands. 

J.  M.  Barrie  ought  to  be  the  happiest  man 
in  the  world.  Not  because  he  has  contributed 
so  much  happiness  to  so  many  people,  though 
that  ought  to  be  a  source  of  joy  in  dark  hours, 
but  because  he  is  one  of  those  extremely  rare 
artists  who  can  actually  embody  their  con- 
ceptions.   His   dreams   come   true.    At   his 

3 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

desk,  he  is  visited  by  visions  so  fantastic  that 
he  must  often  laugh  aloud  in  solitude;  but 
the  amazing  thing  is  that  he  can  make  the 
whole  world  see  them  as  he  sees  them.  The 
tragic  disparity  between  conception  and  exe- 
cution that  tortures  even  accomplished  art- 
ists, vanishes  here  before  the  creative  power 
of  genius. 

That  literary  men  cannot  write  plays  is  a 
lusty  myth.  Authors  of  inane,  reverberating 
claptrap  never  tire  of  repeating  it.  Yet  the 
three  foremost  playwrights  of  the  modem 
English  Theatre,  Shaw,  Galsworthy,  Barrie, 
were  all  distinguished  novelists  before  any- 
one thought  of  them  in  connexion  with  the 
footlights.  So  was  St.  John  Ervine;  Dun- 
sany  was  a  writer  of  prose  tales,  and  John 
Drinkwater  a  professional  poet.  To  com- 
mand an  excellent  literary  style  is  not  neces- 
sarily a  fatal  handicap. 

Although  Mr.  Barrie  had  written  a  number 
of  books  before  The  Little  Minister  appeared 
in  1891,  it  was  this  thrilling  story  that  liter- 
ally spread  his  fame  over  the  wide  earth. 
One  of  the  most  fortunate  results  of  its  publi- 
cation was  that  it  attracted  the  attention  of 
Stevenson,  on  the  other  side  of  the  world. 

4 


J.  M.  BARRIE 

Stevenson's  heart  was  always  in  Scotland; 
and  the  appearance  of  a  good  book  by  a  Scots- 
man gave  him  a  thrill  quite  unlike  any  other 
sensation.  Twice  he  essayed  to  write  a  let- 
ter to  his  young  countryman,  and  succeeded 
only  at  the  third  attempt.  He  seems  to  have 
been  instantly  aware  of  the  extraordinary 
powers  of  the  new  man,  and  equally  certain 
that  The  Little  Minister  was  only  a  prologue 
to  the  swelling  act.  In  February  1892,  Stev- 
enson overcame  a  shyness  characteristic  of 
both  men  (surely  not  of  all  Scots)  and  wrote, 
**you  are  one  of  four  that  have  come  to  the 
front  since  I  was  watching  and  had  a  corner 
of  my  own  to  watch,  and  there  is  no  reason, 
unless  it  be  in  these  mysterious  tides  that 
ebb  and  flow,  and  make  and  mar  and  murder 
the  works  of  poor  scribblers,  why  you  should 
not  do  work  of  the  best  order.  .  .  .  We  are 
both  Scots  besides,  and  I  suspect  both  rather 
Scotty  Scots.  .  .  .  Lastly,  I  have  gathered 
we  had  both  made  our  stages  in  the  metrop- 
olis of  the  winds,  our  VirgiPs  *grey  metrop- 
olis,* and  I  count  that  a  lasting  bond.  No 
place  so  brands  a  man.''  In  December  of 
the  same  year,  having  read  A  Window  in 
Thrums,  Stevenson  wrote  again,  **I  don't  say 

5 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

that  it  is  better  than  The  Minister  .  .  .  but 
somehow  it  is — well,  I  read  it  last  anyway, 
and  it's  by  Barrie.  And  he's  the  man  for 
my  money.  The  glove  is  a  great  page ;  it  is 
startlingly  original,  and  as  true  as  death  and 
judgment.  .  .  .  Thomas  affects  me  as  a  lie 
— I  beg  your  pardon ;  doubtless  he  was  some- 
body you  knew,  that  leads  people  so  far 
astray.  The  actual  is  not  the  true.  I  am 
proud  to  think  you  are  a  Scotchman.  .  .  . 
There  are  two  of  us  now  that  the  Shirra 
[Walter  Scott]  might  have  patted  on  the 
head.  And  please  do  not  think  when  I  thus 
seem  to  bracket  myself  with  you,  that  I  am 
wholly  blinded  with  vanity.  Jess  is  beyond 
my  frontier  line ;  I  could  not  touch  her  skirt ; 
I  have  no  such  glamour  of  twilight  on  my 
pen.  I  am  a  capable  artist ;  but  it  begins  to 
look  to  me  as  if  you  were  a  man  of  genius. 
Take  care  of  yourself  for  my  sake.  *'  A  year 
later,  December  1893,  at  the  close  of  a  long- 
ish  letter,  Stevenson  was  bold  enough  to 
write,  **  Whereupon  I  make  you  my  salute 
with  the  firm  remark  that  it  is  time  to  be  done 
with  trifling  and  give  us  a  great  book.''  De- 
spite his  enthusiasm  for  Thrums  and  The 
Little   Minister,   Stevenson    seems   to   have 

6 


J.  M.  BARRIE 

known  well  enough  that  Barrie  would  sur- 
pass them;  anyhow,  he  did.  He  replied  by 
writing  Sentimental  Tommy,  which  Steven- 
son never  lived  to  see  in  print,  but  the  char- 
acter and  plot  awakened  his  liveliest  curi- 
osity, all  the  more  that  in  some  features  he 
was  the  hero ;  had  he  lived  to  see  it  completed, 
he  would  have  welcomed  it  as  one  of  the  great 
British  novels,  which  it  undoubtedly  is.  The 
evidences  of  amateurishness  in  The  Little 
Minister  vanished,  and  we  have  the  work  of 
a  master's  hand. 

It  is  an  interesting  fact  that  in  the  early 
nineties,  two  novelists  of  genius — who  were 
later  to  become  intimate  friends — were  both 
struggling  to  win  distinction  on  the  British 
stage;  J.  M.  Barrie  and  Henry  James.  Af- 
ter a  few  false  starts,  the  former  fairly  sur- 
passed expectation;  the  latter  totally  failed. 
The  reasons  for  this  failure  are  conclusively 
though  unconsciously  given  by  the  aspirant 
himself,  in  the  wonderful  Letters,  published 
in  1920.  And  the  main  reason  is  not  because 
Mr.  James  failed  to  master  the  technique  of 
the  stage,  while  Mr.  Barrie  succeeded;  the 
failure  was  inherent  in  the  temperament  and 
mental  processes  of  the  great  American.    In 

7 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

order  to  achieve  the  success  in  the  theatre 
that  he  reached  in  short  stories,  novels,  and 
literary  criticism,  Henry  James  would  have 
required  a  play  twelve  hours  long,  a  dialogue 
enunciated  with  the  deliberation  of  a  glacier, 
and  an  intellectual  audience  endowed  with 
divine  patience.  For  the  effect  produced  in 
his  novels — of  which  I  am  almost  a  fanatical 
admirer — is  produced  by  the  accumulation  of 
atoms;  one  pauses  in  reading,  one  reflects, 
one  reads  back,  one  finally  sees;  and  then, 
after  finishing  the  last  page,  one  really  ought 
to  read  the  whole  book  through  again  in  the 
light  of  the  conclusion.  There  is  hardly  time 
for  that  method  at  the  theatre ;  there,  instead 
of  an  effect  produced  by  a  large  collection  of 
tiny  units,  one  word,  one  gesture,  one  smile, 
or  one  silence  must  do  it  all. 

Herein  lies  one  of  the  chief  elements  in  Mr. 
Barriers  success.  He  reveals  a  situation  as 
a  lightning  flash  reveals  an  object  in  gross 
darkness.  It  is  probably  necessary  for  ordi- 
nary aspirants  to  study  the  *  technique  of 
the  drama'^;  I  do  not  know,  for  I  suppose  I 
am  the  only  white  man  who  never  wrote  a 
play.  But  it  is  not  necessary  for  genius.  If 
a  prize  had  been  offered  in  1605  for  the  best 

8 


J.  M.  BARRIE 

treatise  on  dramatic  construction,  I  do  not 
think  Shakespeare  could  have  secured  honour- 
able mention;  while  it  is  probable  that  Ben 
Jonson  would  have  carried  off  the  palm. 
Mr.  Barrie  is  a  great  playwright  because  he 
understands  human  nature,  knows  how  to 
represent  it  in  conversation  and  in  action, 
has  enormous  sympathy  with  his  characters, 
and  what  is  equally  important,  has  enormous 
sympathy  with  the  audience.  His  plays  are 
full  of  action ;  and  yet  the  story  of  each  play 
can  usually  be  given  in  a  few  sentences. 
What  is  it  then,  keeps  the  audience  at 
strained  attention?  If  some  character  ask 
a  question,  we  would  not  miss  the  answer  for 
all  the  w^orld.  His  people  capture  us  almost 
instantly,  because,  while  composing  the  play, 
their  creator  himself  felt  their  reality.  They 
were  right  there,  in  the  room  with  him.  He 
saw  their  faces  and  heard  their  voices.  In  a 
conversation  with  Mr.  John  D.  Williams,  he 
said,  ^^It  is  my  contemptible  weakness,  that  if  ll 
I  say  a  character  smiled  vacuously,  I  must  ' 
smile  vacuously;  if  he  frowns  or  leers,  I 
frown  or  leer ;  if  he  is  a  coward  and  given  to 
contortions,  I  cringe,  or  t^vist  my  legs  until  I 
have  to  stop  writing  to  undo  the  knot.    I  bow 

9 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

with  him,  eat  with  him,  and  gnaw  my  mus- 
tache with  him.  If  the  character  be  a  lady 
with  an  exquisite  laugh,  I  suddenly  terrify 
you  by  laughing  exquisitely.  One  reads  of 
the  astounding  versatility  of  an  actor  who  is 
stout  and  lean  on  the  same  evening,  but  what 
is  he  to  the  novelist  who  is  a  dozen  persons 
within  the  hour?  Morally,  I  fear,  we  must 
deteriorate ;  but  that  is  a  subject  I  may  wisely 
edge  away  from.'' 

Now  this  method,  so  delightfully  described 
in  the  above  conversation,  is  similar  to  the 
method  used  by  the  founder  of  modern 
French  dramatic  realism,  Henry  Becque. 
While  he  was  writing  his  masterpiece,  Les 
CorheauXj  in  which  every  person  has  an  al- 
most intolerable  air  of  reality,  the  author 
would  rise,  stand  in  front  of  a  tall  mirror, 
and  go  through  an  extraordinary  series  of 
gesticulations  and  grimaces  corresponding  to 
the  appearance  of  his  imagined  men  and 
women. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  shyness — so  char- 
acteristic of  the  literary  as  distinguished 
from  the  rhetorical  temperament — is  an  im- 
mense asset  to  a  creative  artist.    Being  a 

10 


J.  M.  BARRIE 

mute  in  general  conversation,  especially  in 
youth,  having  no  part  to  play  and  praying  to 
escape  from,  rather  than  to  attract  the  gen- 
eral attention,  the  unavoidable  hours  spent 
in  society,  in  eating,  and  in  travel,  are  spent 
in  acute  observation.  Men  and  women  who 
cannot  listen — who  talk  incessantly — are  al- 
most invariably  poor  judges  of  human  na- 
ture ;  their  loquacity  is  both  cause  and  effect 
of  this  ignorance.  Mr.  Barrie,  more  ques- 
tioned than  questioning,  is  an  admirable^ 
listener;  in  a  long  conversation  I  once  had 
with  him,  I  was  both  gratified  and  ashamed 
by  the  serious  attention  I  received.  The 
capacity  to  observe,  combined  with  an  endless 
capacity  for  human  sympathy,  are  evident  in 
all  his  literary  work. 

A  certain  gentleness  goes  with  understand- 
ing; your  robustious  fellows  do  not  know 
much  about  men  and  women.  There  are 
many  men  whose  family  fireside  conversa- 
tion is  a  succession  of  stump  speeches;  do 
their  wives  understand  them  or  do  they  not? 
Do  you  think  they  understand  their  wives? 
Is  not  the  silent  listener  at  the  hearth  often  a 
judge  as  well  as  an  audience? 

11 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

(By  the  way,  how  much  better  it  is  to  listen 
to  a  stump  speech  that  sounds  like  intimate 
conversation,  than  to  etc.) 

The  year  1891  was  memorable,  for  in  that 
year  Barrie  published  his  first  famous  novel. 
The  Little  Minister ^  and  made  his  first  ap- 
pearance on  any  stage.  With  Mr.  Marriott- 
Watson  as  collaborator,  he  produced  a  drama 
that  had  a  run  of  exactly  one  day.  The  play 
was  Richard  Savage,  and  I  wish  I  knew  where 
I  could  lay  my  hands  on  a  copy,  for  it  would 
be  interesting  not  only  in  itself,  but  for  its 
ex  post  facto  potentialities.  Some  twenty- 
two  years  ago,  Mr.  Edward  Morton  gave  an 
entertaining  account  of  it,  by  which  we  learn 
that  it  was  a  romantic  drama  of  the  eight- 
eenth century,  with  real  persons,  Steele, 
Savage,  and  Jacob  Tonson.  The  prologue 
was  written  by  W.  E.  Henley,  and  the  scenes 
that  followed  were  filled  with  plots  and  coun- 
ter-plots, strange  oaths  and  the  clashing  of 
swords.  Mr.  Morton  says  that  the  future 
dramatist  is  revealed  *4n  the  scene  in  which 
Steele  frees  two  lovers  from  an  irksome  en- 
gagement to  marry,  from  which  both  are 
eager  to  be  released,  and  leaves  each  disposed 
to  think  the  other  has  been  called  upon  to 

12 


J.  M.  BAKRIE 

make  a  sacrifice. '  ^  This  situation,  I  may  add, 
Barrie  repeated  in  Walker,  London. 

One  would  think  that  the  prodigious  suc- 
cess of  The  Little  Minister  and  the  failure  of 
Richard  Savage  would  indicate  to  the  author 
his  true  *^line.'*  But  Barrie,  encouraged  by 
success,  was  inspired  by  failure,  for  in  the 
same  year  he  produced  two  other  plays  of  no 
importance,  Ibsen's  Ghost  and  Becky  Sharp, 
The  former  was  an  unsuccessful  parody  on 
Ibsen,  the  preliminary  necessary  study  of  the 
Scandinavian  genius  bearing  fruit  later  in 
The  Twelve-Pound  Look  and  in  The  Will, 
The  other  trifle  was  made  by  arranging  the 
language  of  Thackeray. 

These  three  finger-exercises  merely  indi- 
cate gromng  facility  in  practice ;  all  depends 
on  some  element  outside  of  the  author 's  mind. 
He  hitched  his  wagon,  not  to  a  star,  but  to 
the  nearest  convenient  post.  In  1892,  how- 
ever, he  wrote  a  purely  original  play,  which, 
devoid  of  even  a  suggestion  of  literary  value, 
indicated  mastery  of  the  playwright's  art. 
This  is  Walker,  London,  produced  at  Toole's 
Theatre,  London,  on  25  February  1892.  The 
entire  action  takes  place  on  a  houseboat 
on  the  Thames,  and  the  humour — it  is  pure 

13 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

farce — arises  from  a  case  of  mistaken  iden- 
tity. The  ideas  in  Ibsen's  DolVs  House — 
which  are  to  be  taken  seriously  later  in  The 
Twelve-Pound  Look,  are  plentifully  ridiculed 
here.  The  strangest  thing  about  Walker — 
when  one  remembers  the  later  plays — is  that 
it  betrays  no  sign  of  its  author's  literary  abil- 
ity. The  difficulty  with  most  plays  is  that 
they  are  all  talk  and  no  action.  Barrie 
seemed  to  feel  that  danger,  for  we  have  here 
a  rapid  succession  of  farcical  situations — 
only  the  small  boy  showing  anything  resem- 
bling the  quality  of  the  later  work.  The 
** technique''  is  admirable;  the  playwright  set 
himself  a  difficult  task,  and  performed  it  in 
the  smoothest  manner.  The  moderate  suc- 
cess of  this  amusing  farce  was  a  real  peril  to 
its  author,  for  had  he  continued  in  this  vein, 
he  would  have  been  a  popular  caterer,  instead 
of  a  great  dramatist.  Even  so  it  seems  in- 
credible that  the  creator  of  The  Admirable 
Crichton  can  be  the  manufacturer  of  Walker, 
London.  Perhaps,  having  learned  technique 
in  that  farce,  he  felt  that  it  had  served  him 
well. 

The  next  year,  with  Conan  Doyle  as  part- 
ner, he  wrote  Jane  Annie;  or  the  Good  Con- 

14 


J.  M.  BAERIE 

duct  Prize,  in  which  the  small  boy  Caddie  was 
the  chief  character  and  made  the  success  of 
the  piece. 

Although  neither  Walker,  London  nor  Jane 
Annie  gave  Barrie  any  reputation,  they  indi- 
cate his  determination  to  succeed  in  a  difficult 
art.  He  must  have  written  to  Stevenson 
about  the  former,  and  perhaps  confided  to 
him  something  of  his  ambition,  for  in  Novem- 
ber 1892,  we  find  a  significant  sentence  in  a 
letter  from  R.  L.  S.  After  outlining  the  plot 
of  what  was  to  be  his  masterpiece,  Weir  of 
Hermiston,  Stevenson  says,  **  Braxfield  [Her- 
miston]  is  my  grand  premier;  or  since  you 
are  so  much  involved  in  the  British  drama, 
let  me  say  my  heavy  lead. '  * 

After  four  years  of  faithful  effort,  he  pro- 
duced in  1895  The  Professor^s  Love  Story, 
his  first  successful  play,  which  was  revived 
in  London  in  the  season  of  1916-1917.  This 
has  always  been  a  favourite  of  its  author's, 
not  merely  for  the  charm  of  sentiment  in  it, 
but  because  it  gave  him  public  recognition  as 
a  dramatist. 

In  the  year  1897  his  fame  as  a  playwright 
equalled  his  fame  as  a  novelist — and  the  same 
book  is  responsible  for  this  right  and  left 

15 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

shot,  The  Little  Minister.  It  was  the  fashion 
at  that  time  to  turn  *^best  sellers''  into  plays, 
a  fashion  that  began  with  Trilby  and  The 
Prisoner  of  Zenda,  and  continued  until  every 
one  wearied  of  it.  Nearly  all  of  these  dram- 
atised novels  were  grotesquely  inept;  and 
perhaps  Mr.  Barrie  was  led  to  make  his  at- 
tempt in  order  to  show  how  it  ought  to  be 
done.  ^*If  the  public  will  insist  on  having 
their  favourite  fiction-characters  incarnate, 
let  us  have  the  process  artistic."  The  au- 
thor did  not  hesitate  to  alter  many  details,  for 
he  was  forced  to  change  time-exposures  into 
snap-shots.  The  play  is  even  better  than  the 
book — each  person  is  sharply  individualised, 
and  by  a  word  or  a  look  both  character  and 
biography  are  revealed.  Jean  is  walking  to 
church,  and  on  being  accosted,  almost  intones 
the  following :  *  *  I  can  neither  hear  nor  see.  I 
am  wearing  my  best  alpaca. ' ' 

In  those  days  Mr.  Norman  Hapgood  was  a 
professional  dramatic  critic.  He  went  to  see 
The  Little  Minister  five  times,  and  it  never 
staled.  He  wrote,  ^  *  The  public  like  The  Lit- 
tle Minister,  and  there  is  more  skill  in  it  than 
in  the  whole  work  of  many  playwrights  who 
pretend  to  a  place  just  ahead  of  the  age. 

16 


J.  M.  BARBIE 

There  is  no  superfluous  word,  scene,  or  move- 
ment, no  excrescence  and  no  self-conscious- 
ness, but  a  steady  movement  carries  the  story 
directly,  with  a  delicate,  artificial,  and  yet 
human  touch,  through  devices  as  fresh  as 
they  are  moderate.  The  comedy  line  just 
this  side  of  farce  is  followed  with  an  unerring 
ability  which  makes  the  play — cheerful,  easy 
and  distinct — as  charming  to  the  simple  as 
it  is  to  the  shrewd/* 

There  is  another  reason  why  we  should  al- 
ways hold  this  drama  in  grateful  remem- 
brance. It  was  the  establishment  in  America 
of  an  alliance  between  Mr.  Barrie  and  Mr.  ' 
Charles  Frohman  as  manager,  with  Miss 
Maude  Adams  as  chief  impersonator — a  posi- 
tion for  which  she  was  foreordained.  Al- 
though I  do  not  believe  either  in  the  man- 
agerial monopoly  or  in  the  star-system,  and 
will  never  cease  to  pray  for  that  happy  time 
when  all  the  cities  in  America  can  have  the 
opportunity  of  seeing  a  new  Barrie  play  at 
the  same  moment — if  we  must  have  the  mon- 
opoly and  the  star,  nothing  could  have  been 
better  than  this  alliance  in  business  and  in 
art.  Three  things  may  be  remembered  to  the 
honour  of  Charles  Frohman:  he  was  loved, 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

trusted,  respected  by  J.  M.  Barrie ;  he  never 
made  a  written  contract  with  anybody,  his 
word  always  being  sufficient;  just  before  the 
Lusitania  sank,  on  being  asked  if  he  were 
afraid  of  death,  he  replied  with  a  smile, 
**Why,  I  have  always  looked  upon  death  as 
the  greatest  of  all  adventures/' 

The  stunning  success  of  The  Little  Minis- 
ter was  followed  by  six  lean  years,  during 
which  Mr.  Barrie 's  career  as  a  dramatist  was 
identified  in  the  popular  mind  with  the  clever 
remodeling  of  one  sensational  novel.  In 
1900  appeared  the  sequel  to  Sentimental 
Tommy,  called  Tommy  and  Grisel,  which  is 
perhaps  as  good  as  most  sequels.  Senti- 
mental Tommy  gave  evidence  of  inspiration ; 
Tommy  and  Grizel  of  perspiration.  After  he 
had  cleansed  his  bosom  of  this  perilous  stuff, 
he  made  the  year  1903  memorable  by  produc- 
ing three  original  plays.  Little  Mary,  a  farce ; 
Quality  Street,  a  light  comedy;  The  Admir- 
able Crichton,  the  greatest  English  drama  of 
modern  times. 

The  first  of  these  is  a  trifle  light  as  air;  it 
has  the  essence  of  laughter.  The  second  is 
full  of  grace  and  full  of  charm;  it  will  live 
longer  than  thousands  of  so-called  serious 

18 


J.  M.  BARBIE 

plays.  It  was  highly  successful  during  its 
first  season,  and  twelve  years  later  was  re- 
vived with  every  sign  of  popular  approba- 
tion. The  ingredients  are  kindly  mixed ;  it  is 
made  up  of  humour,  pathos,  romance,  and 
mystery.  Like  his  first  attempt,  it  is  a 
romantically- realistic  drama  of  the  eight- 
eenth century,  but  this  time  the  hand  that 
fashioned  it  had  attained  mastery.  When  it 
revisited  the  stage  during  the  World  War, 
the  opening  scene  startled  the  audience: 
**Miss  Fanny  is  reading  aloud  from  a  library 
book  while  the  others  sew  or  knit.  They  are 
making  garments  for  our  brave  soldiers  now 
far  away  fighting  the  Corsican  ogre." 

As  a  series  of  pictures.  Quality  Street  has 
all  the  charm  of  Cranford;  as  a  stage-play  it 
is  a  delicate  bit  of  confectionery,  a  Whimsy 
cake.  But  The  Admirable  Crichton  is  meat 
for  men.  It  has  given  solid  nourishment  to 
democratic  ideals  for  seventeen  years  and  if 
its  substance  could  be  universally  and  thor- 
oughly absorbed,  it  really  would  make  the 
world  safe  for  democracy.  Men  of  letters 
have  always  done  more  for  democracy  than 
statesmen. 

I  doubt  if  we  shall  ever  penetrate  to  the 
19 


/ 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

last  significance,  to  the  final  essence,  of  the 
play.  Every  time  I  read  it  there  is  a  new 
revelation,  with  a  hint  of  something  vastly 
important  not  plainly  shown.  Its  philosophy 
contains  a  disturbing  challenge  to  the  audi- 
ence, as  every  good  drama  should  do.  In- 
stead of  a  manufactured  puzzle  with  a  trick 
solution — a  common  notion  of  what  plays 
should  be — it  leaves  the  spectators  unsatis- 
y  fied.  Instead  of  merely  drawing  our  atten- 
tion to  the  characters  in  the  story,  it  directs 
imperiously  our  attention  to  the  structure  of 
^  society,  to  life  itself.  Call  it  unreal,  call  it 
fantastical,  if  you  like;  its  scenery  may  be 
romantic,  but  its  thought  is  realistic.  It  is 
founded  on  the  basal  traits  in  human  nature, 
and  on  the  history  of  the  development  of 
human  society.  Crichton  is  a  pragmatist; 
the  Truth  is  that  power,  not  ourselves,  which  / 
works  for  efiiciency.  Nature  is  his  goddess ;  | 
and  the  natural  life  in  London  may  be  exactly  ( 
contrary  to  the  natural  life  on  a  desert  island.  *^ 
He  believes  in  the  only  true  form  of  democ- 
racy— not  the  nose-counting  method,  but  a 
system  of  representative  government,  where 
the  best  men  are  chosen  not  as  the  agents  of 
the  majority  that  elected  them,  but  as  free- 

20 


J.  M.  BARRIE 

minded  rulers,  who  will  use  their  own  judg- 
ment for  the  best  interests  of  those  less  fitted 
to  assume  responsibility. 

Crichton  is  a  born  aristocrat,  like  every 
superman.  His  disgust  at  the  counterfeit 
radicalism  of  Lord  Loam  in  the  early  scenes, 
where  an  unnatural  tea-party  once  a  month 
is  forced  on  the  unwilling  household  above 
and  below  stairs,  is  the  logical  antagonism 
of  a  man  who  rules  below  as  his  Lordship 
rules  above.  As  soon  as  the  conventions  of 
society  disappear  before  the  importunate 
necessities  of  nature,  we  find  Crichton  not 
only  ruling,  but  surrounding  himself  with  all 
the  outward  signs  of  majesty,  even  as  the 
First  Consul  became  the  Emperor. 

In  a  very  wise  book  we  are  told  that  among 
those  things  for  which  the  earth  is  disquieted, 
and  which  it  cannot  bear,  is  a  servant  when 
he  reigneth.  The  earth  presumably  means 
organised  society.  Many  instances  of  the 
failure  of  this  experiment  occurred  in  the 
early  days  of  both  the  French  and  the  Rus- 
sian revolutions;  but  when  by  a  single  acci- 
dent, the  centuries  of  human  development  are 
swept  away,  and  the  complexities  of  life  are 
transformed  into  a  simple  question  of  exist- 

21 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEKN  DRAMATISTS 

ence,  service  and  peerage  are  seen  to  be  ex- 
ternal as  Piccadilly  garments;  the  strongest 
man  comes  to  the  top.  It  is  notable  that  on 
the  island  was  only  one  book ;  that  book  was 
brought  there  by  Crichton,  and  the  dramatist 
repaid  the  kindness  of  the  poet  who  wrote  a 
prologue  for  his  first  play,  by  making  this 
book  a  volume  of  Henley's  poems. 
»  It  is  clear  that  the  play  is  a  tragedy,  not 
only  for  Crichton,  but  for  Lady  Mary — ^yes, 
perhaps  for  Lord  Loam  when  the  change 
from  open  air,  exercise,  simple  food,  to  their 
opposites,  brings  on  some  horrible  disease  of 
the  liver.  For  the  very  organisation  of  so- 
ciety, necessary  though  it  be,  is  contrary  to 
the  natural  instincts  of  man.  You  cannot 
have  your  cake  and  eat  it  too,  which  so  many 
grown-up  children  are  forever  trying  to  ac- 
complish. If  it  is  pleasant  to  have  well- 
heated-and-lighted  houses,  opportunities  for 
learning  and  for  pleasure,  adequate  police 
protection,  so  it  is  decidedly  unpleasant  to 
conform  every  day  and  every  night  to  the 
artificial  restraints  of  convention.  There  is 
a  price  for  everything  and  that  price  must 
be  paid.  Crichton  knew  well  enough  that  it 
was  better  for  Lady  Mary  to  live  in  London 

22 


J.  M.  BABRIE 

than  on  the  island,  and  that  in  London  a 
reigning  servant  would  be  unendurable. 
Their  natural  instincts  therefore  had  to  be 
crucified,  as  natural  instincts  are  every  day 
and  everywhere.  Remember  the  stress  laid 
on  the  word  * '  natural ' '  throughout  the  play 
— it  is  Crichton's  touchstone  for  truth. 
Their  parting  is  tragic  in  the  extreme.  All 
parting  of  lovers  is  tragic.  And  the  reason 
why  this  comedy  is  a  tragedy  is  not  because 
either  Crichton  or  Lady  Mary  falters  at  the 
essential  moment,  but  because  the  conditions 
of  life  make  their  mutual  happiness  impossi- 
ble. They  may  eventually  attain  happiness 
in  separation,  but  never  together.  The 
sharp  pain  of  the  unspoken  farewell  may 
eventually  become  the  fragrance  of  rosemary. 
But  n(m-  these  predestined  natural  lovers 
part,  arid  awake  from  a  beautiful  dream  to 
cold  facts. 

If  we  may  judge  by  the  newspaper  criti- 
cism of  the  London  revival  of  1919 — which  of 
course  was  immensely  successful,  for  people 
forget  how  good  Barrie  is  till  they  hear  him 
again — a  slightly  different  ending  was  pro- 
vided to  the  play.  I  cannot  help  doubting 
this;  but  if  it  be  true,  what  were  Barriers 

23 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DEAMATISTS 

reasons?  Was  it  a  sop  to  vociferous  democ- 
racy, or  was  it  a  result  of  the  war,  which 
in  real  life  would  have  provided  another  con- 
clusion? For  during  the  war  Crichtons  cer- 
tainly came  to  the  front,  in  every  sense  of 
that  word.  Anyhow,  if  it  were  changed  by 
the  author,  we  may  for  once,  permissibly 
doubt  his  wisdom.  The  ending  in  the  book 
is  perfect. 

Lady  Mary.  Tell  me  one  thing;  you  have  not 
lost  your  courage  ? 

Crichton.     No,  my  lady. 

{She  goes.    He  turns  out  the  lights.) 

The  dramatic  critic,  A.  B.  Walkle>,  pro- 
tested in  The  Times  against  changing  the 
flawless  close.  But  either  his  recollection  of 
the  first  performance  played  him  false,  or 
else  Barrie  omitted — as  he  did  elsewhere — 
some  spoken  lines  when  he  put  the  play  into 
the  permanent  form  of  print.  Mr.  Walkley, 
in  his  review  of  the  revival,  says  of  Crichton : 
**He  left  you  with  the  announcement  of  his 
intention  of  settling  down  with  Tweeny  in  a 
little  ^pub'  in  the  Harrow  Road.  This  struck 
the  perfect  note,  the  final  word  of  irony. '^ 
Now  in  the  book,  there  is  no  mention  of  a 

24 


J.  M.  BARBIE 

'pub,'  nor  indeed  of  any  future  plan,  al- 
though of  course  everyone  foresees  the  mar- 
riage of  Crichton  with  the  adoring  Tweeny. 
Mr.  Walker  continues:  **You  didn't  need  to 
be  reminded  of  the  superman.  You  could  do 
that  for  yourself.  But  now  the  author  in- 
sists upon  superfluously  reminding  you. 
The  Harrow  Road  *pub'  has  been  dropped 
out.  Crichton  glares  at  his  old  island  sub- 
jects, and  they  cower  with  reminiscence.  He 
glares  at  the  formidable  Lady  Brocklehurst, 
and  she,  even  she,  quails.  Lady  Mary  re- 
minds him  of  the  past,  and  even  a  redinte- 
gratio  amoris  is  hinted  at.  In  short,  the  au- 
thor *  hedges' — *  hedges'  against  his  own  old 
irony,  that  perfect  thing." 

The  book  was  printed  long  after  the  first 
stage  success,  and  before  the  revival  criti- 
cised by  Mr.  Walkley.  Is  it  not  possible  that 
the  revival  follows  the  text,  and  that  either 
the  actors  gave  a  false  interpretation,  or  that 
the  critic  missed  even  more  than  the  *pub'? 
Let  us  hope  so. 

In  1920  a  French  translation  of  The  Admir- 
able Crichton  was  produced  on  the  Paris 
stage,  by  the  clever  actor-manager,  Firmin 
Gemier.    It  was  put  on  at  the  Theatre  An- 

25 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

toine,  the  most  hospitable  of  all  Parisian 
play-houses.  The  version  followed  the  Eng- 
lish text  closely,  and  there,  at  all  events,  the 
ending  was  not  altered,  for  Crichton  is  defi- 
nitely a  servant  in  the  last  act.  The  audience 
gave  every  sign  of  enthusiasm  and  delight, 
for  which  I  am  glad.  Paris  needs  Barrie  as 
much  as  America  needs  him.  Additional 
humour  was  provided  by  the  extraordinary 
discussion  which  arose  in  the  foyer  as  to  how 
Crichton  should  be  pronounced;  Creeton, 
Crikton,  and  Crishton  were  confidently  cham- 
pioned, and  Paris  had  a  new  subject  of  table- 
talk.  According  to  the  Christian  Science 
Monitor,  which  gave  an  excellent  account  of 
the  French  production  in  its  issue  for  7  Sep- 
tember 1920,  the  Parisians  now  know  what 
a  ^^Barrieism"  is.  *^Sir  James  enriched  the 
English  language  with  a  new  phrase — *to 
Barrie.'  A  *Barrieism'  was  something  that 
could  be  recognised  and  *  to  Barrie '  was  to  do 
something  that  could  hardly  be  otherwise  de- 
scribed. ' ' 

In  the  cinema  version  provided  for  Ameri- 
can consumption,  I  feared  that  in  a  land 
which  loves  to  hear  the  scream  of  the  eagle, 
/  the  play  would  end  with  the  marriage  of  Lady 

26 


J.  M.  BARBIE 

Mary  and  Crichton.  That  error  was  not 
committed ;  in  order  to  explain  to  the  specta- 
tors, always  eager  for  sentiment,  the  impos- 
sibility of  this  union,  a  lady  was  introduced 
who  had  married  her  chauffeur,  with  disas- 
trous results.  *' You  see,  dear  friends,  it  sim- 
ply won't  do.''  The  final  scene  takes  us  to  a 
distant  farm  in  America — where  Crichton  and 
Tweeny  live  happily  forever  after.  This  is 
not  a  bad  guess  at  what  might  easily  be  the 
sequel  to  Mr.  Barrie's  play.  Back  to  the 
land — for  a  wide  western  farm  is  the  nearest 
approach  to  the  conditions  of  an  island. 

The  iilm  play  unfortunately  suffered  under 
the  Biblical  title  Male  and  Female — which  for 
that  matter  might  be  the  title  of  nine-tenths 
of  the  motion  pictures — and  was  also  marred 
in  the  opening  scenes  by  some  gratuitous  and 
inexcusable  vulgarity.  After  that  the  play 
progressed  extremely  well ;  the  pictures  were 
admirable,  and  the  story  dramatically  and 
skilfully  presented.  Many  have  felt  that  **a 
protest  ought  to  be  made"  against  putting 
Barrie  on  the  screen.  Personally,  under 
present  conditions,  I  rejoice  that  it  was  done, 
and  I  hope  to  see  Peter  Pan  and  other  mas- 
terpieces.   If  we  had  a  repertory  company  in 

27 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

every  town,  with  the  right  to  produce  these 
plays  on  the  legitimate  stage,  then  it  would 
be  unfortunate  to  present  them  only  in  pic- 
tures; but,  as  this  drama  itself  teaches  us, 
the  natural  instinct  of  healthy  Americans  to 
see  good  plays  is  thwarted  by  a  system  of 
theatrical  monopoly;  and  it  is  better  to  see 
Barrie  on  the  screen  than  not  to  see  him  at 
all.  And  it  is  better  to  see  Barrie  on  the 
screen  than  to  see  almost  anything  else. 

Apart  from  the  profound  ideas  expressed 
in  this  work  with  such  a  combination  of  mirth 
and  sentiment,  the  situations  are  truly  dra- 
matic from  beginning  to  end,  one  more  proof 
of  how  this  man  of  letters  does  not  depend 
wholly  or  even  mainly  on  the  written  word. 
If  you  stop  to  think  of  it,  there  is  no  more 
dramatic  figure  than  a  butler — consider 
Fanny's  First  Play;  consider  Dear  Brutus; 
consider  the  frequency  with  which  the  figure 
of  a  butler  appears  on  the  modern  stage. 
He  is  picturesque  and  even  startling;  have 
you  reflected  on  the  astounding  process  of 
civilisation  which  has  brought  about  such  a 
situation  as  that  of  a  man  handing  food  three 
times  a  day  to  healthy  and  able-bodied  indi- 
viduals ? 

28 


J.  M.  BABEIE 

Lady  Brocklehurst,  terrible  as  an  army 
with  banners,  an  old  woman  who  must  bring 
joy  to  the  heart  of  Hugh  Walpole,  probes  into 
human  nature  by  a  method  so  simple  it  is 
a  wonder  that  it  is  not  more  generally 
adopted.  How  should  I  feel?  what  should  I 
say  if  I  were  in  his  position!  It  is  the  old 
Charles  Eeade  formula,  Put  Yourself  in  His 
Place.  We  are  all  alike  in  sensations  and 
reactions  and  impulses;  but  we  differ  so 
radically  in  imagination  that  the  truth  re- 
mains in  darkness  when  it  might  easily  be 
brought  into  the  light. 

Owing  to  the  powerful  impression  made 
by  this  play,  it  is  probable  that  in  the  minds 
of  most  people  to-day  the  Admirable  Crich- 
ton  means  Barriers  butler ;  perhaps  it  will  not 
be  an  insult  to  readers  if  I  recall  the  fact  that 
the  original  person  who  earned  the  adjective 
was  James  Crichton,  born  in  Scotland,  19 
August  1560,  famous  for  his  immense  learn- 
ing and  accomplishments.  At  the  age  of 
seventeen,  it  is  said  (I  doubt  it)  that  he  was 
the  master  of  twelve  languages.  Thus 
equipped,  he  traveled  on  the  Continent,  en- 
listed in  the  French  army,  later  went  to  Italy, 
engaged  in  public  debates,  wrote  clever  Latin 

29 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

poems,  and  was  dexterous  with  the  sword. 
He  had  a  four  days  debate  with  the  faculty 
of  the  University  of  Padua  on  the  true  mean- 
ing of  the  Aristotelian  philosophy,  completely 
vanquishing  those  Pundits.  In  Mantua  he 
killed  a  famous  swordsman  in  a  duel  that  at- 
tracted as  much  attention  as  a  modern  prize- 
fight. Finally  he  was  murdered  in  a  street 
attack  at  night.  He  left  this  world  with 
a  magnificent  gesture,  for  recognising  the 
leader  of  the  assassins  as  his  pupil,  he  offered 
him  his  own  sword  handle  first;  the  gentle- 
man accepted  it  and  slew  him.  This  hap- 
pened in  July  1583,  the  Admirable  Crichton 
being  twenty-two  years  of  age.  If  the  half 
of  his  biography  be  true,  Mr.  Barriers  hero 
is  not  necessarily  overdrawn. 

The  first  two  of  the  plays  released  for  sep- 
arate publication  were  Quality  Street  and 
The  Admirable  Crichton,  Each  appeared  in 
a  sumptuous  large  volume,  with  so  many 
illustrations  by  Hugh  Thomson  that  it  is  the 
next  thing  to  being  in  the  theatre.  Mr. 
Thomson,  who  was  born  only  a  few  days  after 
J.  M.  Barrie,  had  an  almost  uncanny  under- 
standing of  these  dramas;  the  pictures  are 
exceedingly  beautiful  and  worthy  of  all 
30 


J.  M.  BAERIE 

praise  as  interpretations.    I  wish  the  com- 
plete plays  were  in  this  form. 

In  the  year  1904  came  Peter  Pan,  and  it    i 
had  a  succes  fou.     This  is  no  spring  jflower,  / 
or  hothouse  plant;  it  is  a  hardy  perennial,  \ 
and  will  delight  thousands  of  spectators  after  / 
we  shall  have  all  made  our  exit  from  the 
planet.    It  is  one  of  the  most  profound,  orig- 
inal, and  universal  plays  of  our  epoch.     No 
London  Christmas  would  be  complete  without 
it.    It  is  just  as  appeaUng  in  1920  as  it  was 
in  1914,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  it  should 
not  produce  the  same  effect  in  2020.     It  is  the 
rapture  of  children,  the  joy  of  old  age;  and 
it   ought   to   take   its   place   with   Rohinson 
Crusoe,  Gulliver's  Travels,  The  Pied  Piper 
Story,    Alice    in    Wonderland,    and    other 
classics  founded  on  some  eternal  principle  of 
youth. 

At  all  events,  in  this  play,  Mr.  Barrie  cre- 
ated a  character,  a  personality;  Peter  Pan 
is  an  addition  to  literature  and  an  addition 
to  humanity.  He  is  a  real  person — already 
proverbial — and  it  seems  incredible  that  he 
can  ever  be  forgotten. 

No  wonder  the  famous  author  enjoyed 
Daisy  Ashford^s  Young  Visiters;  the  man 

31 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

that  wrote  Peter  Pan  was  the  first  man  in  the 
world  to  appreciate  the  character  and  adven- 
tures of  Mr.  Salteena.  George  Meredith  said 
of  Henry  James 's  book,  The  American  Scene, 
**It  is  really  a  tour  of  Henry  James's  in- 
side. ' '  Well,  the  play  Peter  Pan,  with  all  its 
objective  pictures  and  thrilling  climaxes,  is 
really  a  tour  of  the  inside  of  a  child's  mind. 
The  play,  supposedly  written  by  a  child,  is  a 
child 's  view  of  the  world ;  the  tick-tock  croco- 
dile, the  pirate  smoking  cigarettes  like  a 
candelabra,  the  fairies  and  the  flying  are  all 
romantically  true  to  life.  Yet  it  is  nowhere 
invertebrate ;  it  is  not  a  series  of  pretty  pic- 
tures, it  is  emphatically  a  play,  and  no  one 
but  a  great  dramatist  could  have  produced  it. 

It  is  curious  that  there  should  have  been 
any  doubt  as  to  the  audience's  reception  of 
the  question — Do  you  believe  in  fairies? 
Audiences  will  always  respond  to  an  appeal 
to  what  is  best  in  them.  This  question  and 
answer  united  stage  and  auditorium,  and 
made  every  listener  an  integral  part  of  the 
play. 

As  stodgy  elders  frequently  fear  that  the 
reading  of  detective  stories  will  draw  boys 
into  a  career  of  crime,  so  there  was  one  New 

32 


J.  M.  BARRIE 

York  winter  when  many  feared  that  Peter 
Pan  would  cause  appalling  infant  mortality. 
Nor,  from  any  point  of  view,  could  their  fears 
be  called  groundless.  All  the  children  were 
trying  to  fly,  and  wished  to  begin  at  the  near- 
est window.  Nurses  literally  had  their  hands 
full. 

I  said  that  Mr.  Barrie  was  fortunate  in 
having  so  fine  an  artist  as  Hugh  Thomson  to 
illustrate  his  plays.  He  is  equally  fortunate 
in  the  bronze  statue  of  Peter  Pan  in  Kensing- 
ton Gardens.  It  seems  almost  miraculous 
that  such  a  creation  of  air  could  be  so  beauti- 
fully expressed  in  a  rigid  form.  But  the 
bronze  figure  is  a  marvel  of  lightness  and 
grace,  and  has  given  abiding  pleasure  to 
the  playwright.  As  a  rule,  statues  are  not 
erected  to  persons  until  after  their  death. 
In  this  instance,  it  was  hopeless  to  await  such 
an  event. 

For  that  matter  not  merely  the  statue,  but 
the  Serpentine  and  the  island  have  now,  in 
addition  to  their  historical  associations,  a 
new  literary  geography. 

George  Llewellyn  Davies  was  the  little  boy 
who  was  the  original  of  Mr.  Barriers  Peter 
Pan.    He  was  sick  in  bed  when  the  first  per- 

33 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

formance  of  the  play  was  given,  but  tliroug'}! 
the  kindness  of  Charles  Frohman  the  com- 
pany gave  a  special  presentation  which  he 
could  see  in  his  room.  He  became  the 
adopted  son  of  the  dramatist,  and  was  killed 
in  battle,  early  in  the  war. 

The  late  Joyce  Kilmer  (who  was  to  share 
the  same  tragic  fate)  published  an  article  on 
Mr.  Barrie  in  the  New  York  Times  for  12 
November  1916,  from  which  we  learn  the 
origin  of  the  name  Wendy.  Alice,  the  tiny 
daughter  of  W.  E.  Henley,  was  devoted  to 
the  poet's  friend;  she  tried  to  call  him 
**  Friendly, ''  but  she  actually  managed  only 
** Wendy."  She  died;  and  her  pet  name  has 
become  enshrined  in  the  play. 

Mr.  Barrie 's  brain  is  divided  into  two  com- 
partments; with  one  he  writes  novels  and 
with  the  other,  plays.  He  never  makes  the 
mistake  of  using  the  wrong  implements  for 
the  allotted  task,  an  error  common  to  literary 
men,  and  to  men  not  at  all  literary.  That  he 
is  himself  quite  aware  of  the  distinction  be- 
tween these  forms  of  art  is  plain  from 
the  first  paragraph  of  Alice-Sit-hy-tJie-Fire 
(1905).  Alluding  to  the  impossibility  of  re- 
vealing the  secrets  of  Amy's  diary:  **Is  it 

34 


J.  M.  BARRIE 

because  this  would  be  a  form  of  eavesdrop- 
ping, and  that  we  cannot  be  sure  our  hands 
are  clean  enough  to  turn  the  pages  of  a  young 
girPs  thoughts?  It  cannot  be  that,  because 
the  novelists  do  it.  It  is  because  in  a  play 
we  must  tell  nothing  that  is  not  revealed  by 
the  spoken  w^ord;  you  must  find  out  all  you 
want  to  know  from  them ;  there  is  no  weather 
even  in  plays  nowadays  except  in  melodrama ; 
the  novelist  can  have  sixteen  chapters  about 
the  hero's  grandparents,  but  we  cannot  even 
say  he  had  any  unless  he  says  it  himself. 
There  can  be  no  rummaging  in  the  past  for 
us  to  show  what  sort  of  people  our  characters 
are;  we  are  allowed  only  to  present  them  as 
they  toe  the  mark;  then  the  handkerchief 
falls,  and  off  they  go." 

Maeterlinck's  Betrothal  had  not  appeared 
when  these  words  were  written ;  but  even  so, 
they  hold  good  for  realistic  plays. 

In  Alice-Sit-by-the-Fire,  not  only  is  every 
individual  character  laughed  at,  but  boyhood, 
girlhood,  youth,  manhood  and  womanhood 
are  all  enveloped  in  a  sea  of  mirth.  It  is  a 
comedy  of  situations  very  close  to  farce;  its 
conventional  feature  is  the  complete  misun- 
derstanding among  the  actors,  with  the  audi- 

35 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

ence  in  full  possession  of  the  truth,  enjoying 
it  all.  There  are  times  indeed  when  we  feel 
the  intrusion  of  the  regular  formula  for  pro- 
ducing laughter — bewilderment.  Yet  al- 
though it  is  perhaps  the  least  important  of  its 
author's  mature  work,  it  is  saved  from  cheap- 
ness by  its  revelations  of  human  nature  and 
by  its  tenderness.  One  expects  the  brother 
and  sister  to  be  absurd ;  their  absurdity  helps 
to  make  them  irresistible;  **for  aye''  is  as 
delightful  as  ^^  me  thinks"  in  Sentimental 
Tommy;  but  how  about  Stephen!  Are  full 
grown  men  so  vain  as  that,  so  easily  made 
idiotic  by  gross  flattery?     They  are. 

J.  M.  Barrie  was  the  last  of  all  the  play- 
wrights to  obey  the  call  of  the  publisher. 
The  printing  of  plays,  traditional  on  the  Con- 
tinent, is  a  recent  phenomenon  in  England 
and  in  America;  and  until  1892,  with  a  few 
exceptions  that  belonged  more  to  literature 
than  to  the  stage,  they  were  not  worth  print- 
ing. But  in  the  twentieth  century,  we  had 
on  our  library  shelves  Wilde,  Synge,  Yeats, 
Pinero,  Jones,  Galsworthy,  Barker,  Shaw, 
Hankin,  Fitch,  Moody,  Thomas — whilst  Bar- 
rie, who  could  best  afford  to  accept  the  chal- 
lenge of  type,  remained  obstinately  inaccess- 

36 


J.  M.  BAREIE 

ible.  In  the  year  of  grace  1918,  he  consented 
to  the  publication  of  all  his  plays,  but  they  do 
not  come  fast  enough. 

Now  it  is  more  necessary  that  English 
plays  should  be  published  than  the  works  of 
Continental  writers.  For  on  the  Continent 
every  one  is  permitted  to  go  to  the  theatre 
and  see  a  new  production ;  whereas  in  Amer- 
ica only  those  who  are  able  to  be  in  New 
York  are  allowed  this  privilege.  The  mod- 
ern drama  simply  does  not  exist  in  Chicago, 
Cleveland,  Detroit,  St.  Louis,  Kansas  City, 
New  Orleans,  and  San  Francisco.  If  it  were 
not  for  the  publication  of  plays,  American 
people  living  outside  of  New  York  would 
know  not  much  more  of  contemporary  British 
and  American  dramas  than  they  know  of  the 
Japanese.  So  long  as  the  citizens  of  the 
great  centres  of  population  away  from  New 
York  are  content  with  this  situation,  so  long 
will  it  continue  to  exist. 

The  reason  why  the  author  hesitated  to 
give  his  consent  to  the  publication  of  his 
plays  is  because  they  were  written  for  the 
theatre;  as  soon  as  one  was  produced,  and 
the  stress  of  its  preparation  and  rehearsal 
over,  he  had  had  enough  of  it,  he  was  done 
37 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

with  it;  he  was  eager  to  begin  a  new  work. 
Now  to  print  it,  as  he  conceived  of  the  under- 
taking, was  not  merely  to  print  the  dialogue, 
with  a  list  of  dramatis  personce,  and  a  few 
stage  directions ;  he  felt  that  it  was  essential 
to  write  stage  directions  and  supplementary 
explanations  so  extensively,  that  the  reader 
would  be  as  nearly  as  possible  in  the  position 
of  the  spectator  in  the  darkened  auditorium. 
At  all  events,  these  stage  directions  are 
among  the  most  original  and  most  brilliant 
compositions  that  have  ever  flowed  from  their 
author's  pen;  they  are  unlike  any  other  stage 
directions  in  the  history  of  the  drama;  they 
not  only  establish  as  intimate  and  fluid  a  rela- 
tion between  play  and  reader  as  exists  be- 
tween actor  and  spectator;  they  are,  and  are 
intended  to  be,  centrifugal;  they  throw  the 
emphasis  away  from  the  individual  charac- 
ters toward  human  nature  in  general,  and 
make  the  reader  aware  of  himself  and  of  his 
identity  with  the  follies,  weaknesses  and  sel- 
fishness exhibited  on  the  stage.  Mr.  Barrie 
is  never  primarily  didactic ;  but  being  a  Scots- 
man, he  cannot  help  trying  to  bring  some 
** lesson  home''  to  his  reader.  Thou  art  the 
man.     So  far  from  this  being  a  source  of 

38 


J.  M.  BARBIE 

irritation,  if  all  sermons  were  as  impressive 
and  as  charming  as  these  plays,  it  would  be 
quite  possible  to  carry  out  Bernard  Shaw's 
suggestion,  and  have  admittance  to  the  thea- 
tres free,  while  charging  three  dollars  for  a 
seat  in.  church. 

Mr.  Barrie  prints  no  list  of  dramatis  per- 
sonce;  just  as  in  the  theatre  we  become  ac- 
quainted with  each  person  as  we  see  him,  so 
in  the  text  the  introductions  are  separate  and 
consecutive.  They  are  permeated  with  that 
quality  which  is  a  secret  of  the  author.  Even 
the  furniture  of  a  room  is  alive.  In  Alice- 
Sit-by-the-Fire,  **The  lampshades  have  had 
ribbons  added  to  them,  and  from  a  distance 
look  like  ladies  of  the  ballet.  The  flower-pot 
also  is  in  a  skirt.  Near  the  d6or  is  a  large 
screen,  such  as  people  hide  behind  in  the 
more  ordinary  sort  of  play;  it  will  be  inter- 
esting to  see  whether  we  can  resist  the  temp- 
tation to  hide  some  one  behind  it.'' 

In  Rosalind,  we  have  a  picture  of  the 
young  Oxford  man  who  is  not  only  the  per- 
fect type  of  the  English  undergraduate,  but 
with  the  change  of  a  few  words  will  represent 
with  equal  clearness  the  type  so  easily  recog- 
nised at  Yale,  Harvard  and  Princeton.     This 

39 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

introduction  is  an  admirable  illustration  of 
the  author's  powers  of  satire,  so  dilferent  in 
their  quality  from  the  tone  of  his  friend 
Bernard  Shaw.  The  young  man,  to  use 
Browning's  phrase,  is  ^' empty  and  fine  as  a 
swordless  sheath,''  but  he  is  satirised  by  sym- 
pathy, not  by  scorn.  One  feels  sure,  ten 
years  hence,  the  boy  will  be  doing  a  man's 
work  in  the  world. 

Before  Mrs.  Quickly  has  reached  the  dcor  it 
opens  to  admit  an  impatient  young  man  in  knicker- 
bockers and  a  Norfolk  jacket,  all  aglow  with  rain- 
drops. Public  school  (and  the  particular  one)  is 
written  on  his  forehead,  and  almost  nothing  else; 
he  has  scarcely  yet  begun  to  surmise  that  anything 
else  may  be  required.  He  is  modest  and  clear- 
eyed,  and  would  ring  for  his  tub  in  Paradise; 
(reputably  athletic  also),  with  an  instant  smile 
always  in  reserve  for  the  antagonist  who  accident- 
ally shins  him.  Whatever  you,  as  his  host,  ask 
him  to  do,  he  says  he  would  like  to  awfully  if  you 
don't  mind  his  being  a  priceless  duffer  at  it;  his 
vocabulary  is  scanty,  and  in  his  engaging  mouth 
** priceless"  sums  up  all  that  is  to  be  known  of  good 
or  ill  in  our  varied  existence ;  at  a  pinch  it  would 
suffice  him  for  most  of  his  simple  wants,  just  as  one 
may  traverse  the  continent  with  Comhien?  His 
brain  is  quite  as  good  as  another's,  but  as  yet  he 
has  referred  scarcely  anything  to  it.    He  respects 

4(1 


J.  M.  BARBIE 

learning  in  the  aged,  but  shrinks  uncomfortably 
from  it  in  contemporaries,  as  persons  who  have 
somehow  failed.  To  him  the  proper  way  to  look 
upon  ability  is  as  something  we  must  all  come  to 
in  the  end.  He  has  a  nice  taste  in  the  arts  that 
have  come  to  him  by  the  way  of  socks,  spats,  and 
slips,  and  of  these  he  has  a  large  and  happy  collec- 
tion, which  he  laughs  at  jollily  in  public  (for  his 
sense  of  humour  is  sufficient),  but  in  the  privacy  of 
his  chamber  he  sometimes  spreads  them  out  like 
troutlet  on  the  river's  bank  and  has  his  quiet  thrills 
of  exultation.  Having  lately  left  Oxford,  he  is  fac- 
ing the  world  confidently  with  nothing  to  impress 
it  except  these  and  a  scarf  he  won  at  Fives  (beat- 
ing Hon.  Billy  Minhorn).  He  has  not  yet  decided 
whether  to  drop  into  business  or  diplomacy  or  the 
bar.  There  will  be  a  lot  of  fag  about  this ;  and  all 
unknown  to  him  there  is  a  grim  piece  of  waste 
land  waiting  for  him  in  Canada,  which  he  will 
make  a  hash  of,  or  it  will  make  a  man  of  him. 
(Billy  will  be  there  too.) 

For  sheer  audacity,  it  would  be  difficult  to 
parallel  the  opening  of  What  Every  Woman 
Knows  (1908).  The  curtain  rises  and  not  a 
word  is  spoken  for  seven  minutes.  To  con- 
ceive and  to  insist  on  such  a  situation  is  an 
indication  of  how  much  confidence  the  play- 
wright had  in  himself,  and  in  his  audience. 
His  confidence  was  justified,  though  it  would 

41 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

be  foolhardy  for  another  to  imitate  it.  I  re- 
member hearing  of  one  play,  where  the  cur- 
tain rose  on  an  empty  room ;  a  dim  lamp  was 
burning;  a  woman  in  black  entered,  took  a 
seat  at  the  table,  and  gave  vent  to  a  long  sigh. 
Some  one  in  the  gallery  said  kindly,  **  Well, 
don't  let  us  keep  you  up,''  and  the  audience 
went  into  such  hysteria  that  the  play  could 
not  go  on. 

In  the  beginning  of  this  play,  one  sees  that 
the  author's  silences  are  as  impressive  as  his 
dialogue — in  fact,  it  is  dialogue,  a  kind  of 
song  without  words.  Silence  is  used  for 
comedy,  as  Maeterlinck  uses  it  for  tragedy. 
The  two  men  at  the  dambrod,  the  alternation 
of  triumph  and  despair,  were  greeted  by  the 
audience  with  every  indication  of  joyful 
recognition ;  and  at  the  pat  moment,  in  walks 
David,  and  removes  his  boots.  You  can  hear 
the  clock  ticking,  and  when  the  silence  is 
finally  broken  by  David's  voice,  not  one  guess 
in  a  million  would  have  predicted  what  the 
granite-like  Scot  would  say  —  it  is  a  quota- 
tion from  Tennyson's  Maud! 

This  is  one  of  the  masterpieces,  in  the  same 
class  with  The  Admirable  Crichton  and  Dear 
Brutus,    The  construction  of  the  piece  is  as 

42 


J.  M.  BARRIE 

near  perfection  as  the  human  mind  can  make 
it;  the  unexpected  happens  in  every  scene, 
just  as  it  does  in  history.  The  surface 
caprices  and  quiddities  of  human  nature  are 
all  accurately  charted,  and  the  depths  of  pas- 
sion— love,  jealousy,  ambition — are  revealed. 
If  the  dramatist  had  written  only  this  play, 
we  should  know  that  he  was  a  man  of  genius. 
No  amount  of  toil  can  turn  out  work  like  this ; 
it  is  sheer  revelation ;  it  is,  as  Turgenev  wrote 
to  Tolstoi,  a  gift  coming  from  that  source 
whence  comes  all  things. 

The  scene  in  the  third  act  is  a  scene  of  tre- 
mendous passion — the  air  is  tense  with  it; 
and  yet,  with  keen  excitement,  there  is  not 
even  a  penumbra  of  melodrama.  It  is  as 
though  the  suffering  were  so  intense  and  ter- 
rible that  we  can  have  no  smell  of  the  theatre 
in  these  flames ;  that  we  can  have  only  reality, 
too  harsh  and  bitter — and  too  infinitely  ten- 
der— for  any  play-acting.  Then  we  suddenly 
remember,  after  the  scene  is  over,  that  it  was 
*'only  a  play.''  Just  that:  ''only  a  play'' — 
only  a  great  work  of  art,  only  a  profound 
revelation  of  the  evil  and  of  the  sublimity 
hidden  in  every  man  and  woman. 

Here  is  a  decisive  battle  between  love  and 
43 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DEAMATISTS 

lust — ^between  the  grace  of  God  and  the  power 
of  the  world.  Maggie  says  to  her  brother, 
**I'll  save  him,  David,  if  I  can.''  *^Does  he 
deserve  to  be  saved  after  the  way  he  has 
treated  youT'  **You  stupid  David.  What 
has  that  to  do  with  it?'' 

In  the  published  version,  two  passages  are 
omitted,  both  of  which  made  a  palpable  hit 
in  the  theatre.  I  do  not  know  why  Mr. 
Barrie  cancelled  them,  but  it  is  fair  to  guess. 
The  first  is  in  the  great  scene  in  the  third  act : 
Maggie 's  father  and  two  brothers  pass  by  the 
self -condemned  and  yet  defiant  John  Shand: 
every  one  of  the  three  brands  him  with  a 
monosyllabic  epithet;  I  remember  only  the 
third.  Let  us  suppose  the  first  man  hissed 
** Scoundrel ! "  the  second,  *' Traitor!"  now 
the  third,  with  terrific  emphasis  shouted 
^* ENGLISHMAN!"  At  the  London  per- 
formance, this  word  drew  more  delighted 
laughter  and  applause  than  any  other  speech. 
Is  it  not  possible  that  in  some  ways  the  Eng- 
lish have  a  more  acute  sense  of  humour  than 
the  Irish!  This  speech  is  one  of  Mr.  Bar- 
rie's  greatest  audacities,  but  he  knew  his 
audience;  he  foresaw  the  result.  Suppose  a 
similar  scene  was  presented  with  the  Scots- 
44 


J.  M.  BAERIE 

man  shouting  Irishman!  He  would  be 
mobbed. 

Perhaps  in  print  the  author  could  not  be 
sure  that  the  reader  would  hear  the  proper 
tone  of  the  voice,  nor  that  he  would  under- 
stand it.  Furthermore,  the  play  was  pub- 
lished during  the  dark  hours  of  the  war,  and 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  say  that  word  in 
that  way,  even  in  jest.  This,  anyhow,  is  my 
guess ;  but  I  am  sorry  for  every  one  who  did 
not  hear  the  original  version. 

The  other  omission  is  just  before  the  click 
of  the  final  curtain.  This  is  what  happened 
in  the  theatre.  **0h,  John,  if  I  could  only 
make  you  laugh  at  me !  * '  * '  I  can 't  laugh,  and 
yet  I  think  you  are  the  drollest  thing  in  all 
creation.'*  **We're  all  droll  to  them  that 
understand  us,  and  I'll  tell  you  why;  Eve 
wasn't  made  out  of  Adam's  rib;  she  was 
made  out  of  his  funnybone."  Now  I  think 
the  reason  why  he  left  this  out  is  because  it  is 
not  good  enough ;  it  is  good  enough  for  most 
dramatists;  it  would  make  the  fortune  of 
some;  but  it  is  not  good  enough  for  J.  M. 
Barrie.  In  my  opinion,  the  printed  version 
gains  by  its  omission. 

45 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

*'0h,  John,  if  only  you  could  laugh  at  me." 

* '  I  can 't  laugh,  Maggie. ' ' 

{But  as  he  continues  to  stare  at  her  a  strange 
disorder  appears  in  his  face.  Maggie  feels 
that  it  is  to  he  now  or  never.) 

** Laugh,  John,  laugh.  Watch  me;  see  how  easy 
it  is." 

(A  terrible  struggle  is  taking  place  within  him. 
He  creaks.  Something  that  may  he  mirth 
forces  a  passage,  at  first  painfully,  no  more  joy 
in  it  than  in  the  discoloured  water  from  a 
spring  that  has  long  been  dry.  Soon,  however, 
he  laughs  loud  and  long.  The  spring  water  is 
becoming  clear.  Maggie  claps  her  hands.  He 
is  saved.) 

Never  shall  I  forget  that  Monday  afternoon 
in  the  spring  of  1909  when  Maude  Adams 
presented  this  play  in  New  Haven.  She  pre- 
sented it  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  making 
an  outright  gift  of  the  gross  receipts  to  the 
Yale  University  Dramatic  Association.  She 
hired  the  theatre,  paid  the  salaries  of  the 
actors,  paid  for  the  transportation  of  the 
company  and  the  scenery  from  New  York  and 
return,  so  that  every  cent  taken  was  given  to 
the  beneficiary.  The  performance  began  at 
one  o'clock,  as  the  play  had  to  fill  its  regular 
date  in  New  York  at  eight.  The  theatre  was 
jammed;  and  the  special  occasion  put  both 

46 


J.  M.  BARRIE 

actors  and  audience  on  edge.  There  was  a 
tenseness  in  the  atmosphere  that  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  describe — the  actress  and  her  company 
fairly  outdid  themselves,  and  everyone  in  the 
house,  from  President  to  sweep,  was  melted 
— I  remember  one  grey-bearded  professor  sit- 
ting near  me,  who,  as  the  tears  coursed  down 
his  whiskers,  exclaimed,  **I  thought  you  said 
this  was  a  comedy !*'  It  was  impossible  to 
restrain  one's  emotion;  and  that  it  reacted 
on  the  stage  may  be  surmised  from  the  fact 
that  in  the  last  scene  both  Miss  Adams  and 
the  leading  man  were  so  overcome  that  they 
could  scarcely  articulate.  After  a  score  of 
recalls,  an  undergraduate,  representing  the 
Dramatic  Association,  stepped  on  the  stage, 
announced  that  Maude  Adams  had  been  made 
an  honourary  member,  and  presented  a  medal. 
She  was  both  laughing  and  crying,  and  it 
seemed  impossible  that  she  could  make  a 
speech.  But  she  did.  She  surprised  us  even 
as  Maggie  surprised  John  Shand  at  the  end 
of  the  second  act.  With  an  affectionate 
gesture  that  embraced  the  audience  she 
said: 

My  Constituents! 
47 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

One  reason  why  it  is  more  difficult  to  write 
a  play  than  a  novel,  is  because  in  a  novel  you 
can  say  that  your  characters  are  witty  and 
brilliant  conversationalists,  without  writing 
any  witty  or  brilliant  conversation.  On  the 
stage  you  have  got  to  prove  it.  What  a  test 
for  Barrie  to  create  a  character  like  Maggie 
Shand!  the  audience  must  really  hear  her 
Shandisms,  and  they  do. 

I  think  the  critic  of  the  Literary  Supple- 
ment of  the  London  Times  is  mistaken  in 
finding  this  play  cruel  and  depressing;  *Sve 
are  shut  up  in  a  cage  of  makeshift,  of  a  clear- 
sighted, tolerant  despair.^'  He  finds  a 
*' clear  cruelty,  a  strong  hint  of  sneering.*' 
A  play  where  a  lost  soul  is  redeemed  by  the 
laughter  of  love,  a  play  where  love  triumphs 
over  the  forces  of  evil,  can  hardly  be  charac- 
terised in  such  terms.  Tragedy  is  there  in 
plenty;  but  a  woman's  wit  puts  it  to  flight. 

This  is  the  doctrine,  simple,  ancient,  true ; 
Such  is  life's  trial,  as  old  earth  smiles  and  knows. 
If  you  loved  only  what  were  worth  your  love, 
Love  were  clear  gain,  and  wholly  well  for  you ; 
Make  the  low  nature  better  by  your  throes ! 

It  is  possible  that  if  Ibsen  had  never  writ- 
48 


J.  M.  BARBIE 

ten  A  BolVs  House y  Barrie  would  not  have 
written  The  Twelve-Pound  Look  (1910).  It 
certainly  harks  back  to  the  great  Norwegian, 
only  there  is  an  improvement  even  on  that 
master  of  economy,  for  the  whole  story  is 
squeezed  (as  Henry  James  would  have  said) 
into  one  act.  It  has  the  depth  of  Ibsen  with- 
out his  grimness,  and  a  marriage  history  is 
revealed  in  fifteen  minutes.  It  is  the  tragedy 
of  failure  in  success ;  the  husband,  identified 
by  Barrie  with  eveiy  man  in  the  audience, 
had  a  complacency  that  literally  made  his 
lawful  spouse  run  for  her  life.  There  was 
not  the  faintest  spark  of  an  adventure  about 
such  a  domestic  existence  — 

We  have  not  sighed  deep,  laughed  free, 
Starved,  feasted,  despaired — been  happy. 

Nora  slammed  the  door,  in  order  that  the 
audience  might  hear  it;  and  she  did  this  at 
the  last  moment  of  the  play.  Kate  slipped 
out  quietly  many  years  before  the  rise  of  the 
curtain;  and  her  subsequent  adventures,  to- 
gether with  the  slow  poisoning  of  her  suc- 
cessor, form  a  sequel  to  the  DolVs  House, 
The  combination  of  Ibsen  and  Barrie  (at 
their  best)  is  a  delight  to  gods  and  men.    I 

49 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

remember  when  I  saw  this  play,  brilliantly 
interpreted  by  Ethel  Barrymore,  I  had  that 
keen  intellectual  pleasure  experienced  only  in 
the  contemplation  of  the  work  of  a  master. 
Barrie  was  three  thousand  miles  away;  but 
we  had  the  chance  of  watching  his  mental 
activities,  as  the  story  progressed.  It  was  a 
great  theme  handled  with  absolute  ease,  a 
man  rejoicing  in  the  fullness  of  his  powers. 

A  reason  why  Barrie  wrote  it  in  one  act,  is 
because  he  could  not  bear  to  have  the  logical 
sequence  interrupted.  I  have  often  wished 
at  good  plays  that  there  might  be  no  inter- 
missions. Who  wants  to  leave  the  room  at 
an  exciting  moment?  These  between-the- 
acts  are  as  acute  a  nuisance  as  the  persons 
who  stood  between  the  sunshine  and 
Diogenes. 

I  wonder  if  the  human  mind  really  requires 
as  much  **resf  as  seems  to  be  commonly 
supposed.  I  am  quite  sure  that  most  human 
minds  do  not  require  rest,  for  that  is  their 
normal  state.  What  they  need  is  develop- 
ment; even  if  the  process  should  demand 
acute  stimulation.  Is  it  impossible  for  the 
average  man  to  listen  to  a  good  play  more 
than  thirty  minutes?    Is  it  impossible  to  lis- 

50 


J.  M.  BARRIE 

ten  to  Beethoven  without  watching  the  body 
of  some  female  *  interpreting''  him? 

They  used  to  say  that  if  Sarah  Bernhardt 
ever  grew  old,  it  would  be  between  the  acts. 
Intermissions  are  of  course  often  necessary, 
but  why  have  them  when  no  change  of  scene 
or  of  costume  demands  it?  At  the  end  of 
some  plays,  one 's  confused  recollection  of  the 
evening  is  of  a  long  series  of  varied  amuse- 
ments, social  conversation,  night  air,  ciga- 
rettes, and  liquid  refreshments — with  little 
dabs  of  stagestuff  interposing,  even  as  in 
modem  magazines  the  advertisements  are 
held  together  by  bits  of  ** literature/' 

In  1913  appeared  The  Legend  of  Leonora, 
not  the  greatest  but  in  some  ways  the  most 
original  of  all  its  author's  productions.  This 
is  one  of  my  favourite  plays,  although  it  was 
coldly  received  by  both  English  and  Ameri- 
can critics.  To  omit  this  comedy  from  Mr. 
Barrie's  works  would  be  a  visible  subtrac- 
tion ;  it  is  unlike  any  of  the  others  both  in  the 
humour  of  character  and  in  the  humour  of  sit- 
uation. It  seemed  to  me  that  the  critics 
rather  misunderstood  its  significance — they 
thought  it  either  a  meaningless  and  therefore 
irritating  whimsical  absurdity,  or  else  they 

51 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

regarded  it  as  an  overdone  burlesque.  Now 
it  is  not  a  satire,  it  is  not  a  burlesque,  and  it  is 
not  meaningless.  It  is  only  apparently  fan- 
tastic; fundamentally  it  is  not  fantastic  at 
all.  Instead  of  dramatising  action  and  con- 
versation, he  has  dramatised  motives  and 
impulses — which  in  organised  society  cannot 
possibly  come  to  fruition. 

A  common  speculation  is  the  horror  of  em- 
barrassment that  would  fall  on  a  social  gath- 
ering should  every  one  present  suddenly 
speak  out  exactly  what  was  in  his  mind,  and 
act  out  every  wayward  impulse.  Think  of 
the  vagaries,  the  insults,  the  flatteries,  the 
blows  and  the  kisses  that  would  fill  the  air! 
I  suppose  everyone  w^ho  has  sat  in  church,  or 
at  a  solemn  assembly,  and  has  had  the  dia- 
bolical urge  to  shout  something  unspeakable, 
has  experienced  a  reaction  of  shame  some- 
what akin  to  what  one  would  feel  had  the 
awful  thing  really  happened. 

Now  in  The  Legend  of  Leonora,  we  have 
two  ideas  presented;  one,  that  no  individual 
can  be  described  by  a  formula;  on  different 
days  in  the  life  of  the  same  person,  that  per- 
son may  behave  as  irregularly  and  inconsist- 
ently as  the  weather.    On  Tuesday  she  may 

52 


J.  M.  BARRIE 

want  you  to  pick  up  her  handkerchief;  but 
who  can  predict  that  she  will  have  the  same 
desire  on  Thursday?  We  are  constantly  de- 
manding of  dramatists  and  novelists  that 
they  make  their  characters  consistent,  when 
in  real  life  there  are  no  such  animals.  Much 
of  the  enormous  labour  spent  on  the  talk  and 
deeds  of  Hamlet  might  be  saved  if  this  pri- 
mary fact  were  borne  in  mind. 

The  second  idea,  on  which  the  comedy  is 
really  founded,  is  the  dramatisation  of  im- 
pulse instead  of  the  representation  of  action. 
Leonora's  little  girl  had  a  cold,  just  a  snufiQy 
cold;  and  when' the  lady  requested  the  gen- 
tleman to  close  the  train-window,  and  he 
rudely  refused,  she  killed  him.  So  far  from 
attempting  to  excuse  herself,  or  to  pretend 
that  it  was  an  accident,  she  insists  that  she 
meant  to  kill  him,  and  is  glad  she  did. 
''Can't  yon  understand?  My  little  girl  had 
a  cold  and  the  man  wouldn't  shut  the  win- 
dow." It  is  not  she  who  is  crazy,  but  every- 
one else.  Now  of  course  a  woman  travelling 
with  a  sick  child  would  not  kill  a  man  who 
refused  to  shut  a  window ;  but  she  would  want 
to.  The  same  dramatisation  of  motive  and 
impulse    appears   in    the    trial   scene.     One 

53 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

critic  showed  a  misconception  of  this,  saying 
that  he  thought  it  a  poor  burlesque.  Of 
course  the  point  is  that  it  is  not  a  burlesque 
at  all.  The  prisoner  is  beautiful,  centri- 
petally  attractive ;  the  judge,  the  prosecuting 
attorney,  the  jury  show  her  every  attention, 
vying  with  one  another  in  claiming  her 
notice;  when  the  jury  retire,  they  soon  send 
in  a  message,  requesting  the  prisoner's  com- 
pany during  their  deliberations.  Now  none 
of  these  things  could  (I  admit)  happen  in  a 
court  of  law;  the  judge  and  prosecuting  at- 
torney would  not  flatter  the  prisoner,  nor 
would  the  jury  request  her  presence;  but  if 
the  prisoner  were  radiantly  beautiful,  this  is 
exactly  what  every  man  of  them  would  want 
to  do.  She  gladly  accedes  to  the  wish  of  the 
jury  and  enters  their  room  carrying  an  enor- 
mous bouquet;  when  she  returns,  she  has  al- 
most nothing  of  it  left ;  but  when  the  jury  ap- 
pear, every  one  of  them  has  a  flower  in  his 
buttonhole. 

Human  nature  may  be  faithfully  and  truth- 
fully represented  in  unnatural  speech  and  in 
unnatural  conduct,  and  this  is  what  Barrie 
has  done.  Sudi  at  all  events  is  my  under- 
standing of  the  play,  as  I  give  it  remembering 

54 


J.  M.  BA'RRIB 

the  happy  day  I  saw  it  on  the  stage.  I 
eagerly  await  its  appearance  in  print, 
whether  or  not  my  impression  will  be  con- 
firmed. 

In  A  Kiss  for  Cinderella  (1916)  we  have 
one  of  the  lesser  plays,  but  for  all  that  a  thing 
of  beauty.  Here  he  returns  to  favourite 
ground,  representing  life  through  the  imagi- 
nation of  an  elementary  mind.  The  old  char- 
woman attends  the  royal  function,  where  the 
king  and  queen  are  sitting  in  rocking-chairs 
and  eating  ice-cream  cones.  Lord  Times  is 
even  higher,  as  the  Quiet  was  above  Setebos. 
This  play  indicates  that  the  tenderness  in  the 
author's  heart  cannot  be  killed  by  circum- 
stances; in  the  scene  where  the  charwoman  is 
taking  care  of  the  babies,  one  of  them  hap- 
pens to  be  German.  ^^I  couldn't  help  taking 
her!''  In  her  poverty  and  in  her  charity 
is  there  not  a  rebuke  both  to  those  who  had 
much  and  gave  little  and  to  those  who  foamed 
at  the  mouth  with  indiscriminate  hate? 

The  World  War  naturally  appears  in  the 
dramas  written  between  1914  and  1918.  Our 
author  has  the  distinction  of  having  written 
the  worst  and  the  best  war-play — I  refer  to 
Der  Tag  and  to  The  Old  Lady  Shows  Her 

55 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

Medals.  The  first  edition  of  the  latter  was 
printed  complete  in  the  New  York  Times,  and 
gave  many  thousand  Americans  an  unpleas- 
ant shock.  It  is  the  only  writing  by  Barrie 
that  is  flat.  Then  it  was  generally  agreed 
that  in  one  respect  Barrie  was  like  other 
dramatists — he  could  not  write  a  good  play 
about  the  war.  But  he  could  and  did,  not 
once,  but  several  times.  In  the  volume  called 
I  Echoes  of  the  War  (1918),  we  have  four 
short  dramas,  all  interesting  and  effective, 
and  one  overwhelmingly  impressive.  One  of 
these  is  The  New  Word,  which  together  with 
a  burlesque  written  by  Barrie  for  the  late 
Gaby  Deslys  ( !)  had  its  first  performance  on 
the  London  stage  in  March  1915.  The 
AthencBum  nearly  fainted  from  the  shock.  I 
can  forgive  the  critic  for  his  regret  that  so 
distinguished  an  author  should  write  such  a 
thing,  but  I  cannot  forgive  him  for  using  the 
past  tense  in  his  closing  sentence — **A11  this 
comes  from  one  who  has,  or  had,  the  gift  of 
getting  psychological  insight  across  the  foot- 
lights. *'  The  critic  really  knew  better  than 
that. 

And  his  disgust  at  the  burlesque  enven- 
omed his  review  of  The  New  Word,  which  he 

56 


J.  M.  BAKEIE 

called  a  lost  opportunity;  it  is  really  most 
commendable  in  that  it  avoids  any  semblance 
of  slushy  sentiment  and  melodrama,  at  the 
very  time  when  such  deplorable  affairs  in  the 
theatre  were  most  in  vogue.  A  normal  Eng- 
lish boy  takes  leave  of  a  normal  English 
father  and  mother,  as  he  departs  for  the 
front;  the  two  farewells  are  quite  different. 
Father  and  son  are  both  cursed  with  the  im- 
possibility of  expressing  their  emotions,  and 
the  father  knowing  that  this  is  the  last  time 
he  may  see  one  whom  he  loves  more  than  any- 
thing else  on  earth,  realises  that  it  is  now  or 
never.  The  embarrassment  of  the  two  is 
both  amusing  and  painful ;  but  it  is  real ;  the 
father  cannot  let  the  boy  go  in  ignorance  of 
how  (literally)  inexpressibly  his  father  loves 
him;  but  how  to  make  this  clear  without  a 
**scene'^?  The  boy  in  discovering  his 
father's  love,  must  not  lose  respect  for  him. 
No  one  could  have  written  this  little  drama 
so  well  as  Barrie.  Once  more  we  may  re- 
member that  although  the  family  is  English, 
fathers  and  mothers  are  much  alike  in  every 
country.  It  is  easier  to  overemphasise  na- 
tional differences  than  to  bear  in  mind  the 
essential  kinship  of  all  men.    Barrie  makes 

57 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEKN  DRAMATISTS 

no  such  error.  The  printed  play  opens  with 
these  words:  **Any  room  nowadays  must  be 
the  scene,  for  any  father  and  any  son  are  the 
dramatis  personce.  We  could  pick  them  up 
in  Mayfair,  in  Tooting,  on  the  Veldt,  in  rec- 
tories or  in  grocers'  back  parlours,  and  tell 
them  to  begin. ' ' 

We  are  perhaps  made  aware  of  the  fact 
that  French  fathers  are  more  like  English 
fathers  than  is  commonly  supposed,  if  we 
remember  a  scene  near  the  beginning  of 
Dumas'  deathless  romance  Les  Trois  Mous- 
quetaires,  where  young  d'Artagnan  leaves 
the  parental  roof.  This  might  easily  have 
served  as  a  prototype  for  Barriers  play. 

**En  sortant  de  la  chambre  paternelle,  le 
jeune  homme  trouva  sa  mere  qui  I'attendait 
avec  la  fameuse  recette  dont  les  conseils  que 
nous  venous  de  rapporter  devaient  necessiter 
un  assez  frequent  emploi.  Les  adieux  furent 
de  ce  cote  plus  longs  et  plus  tendres  qu  'ils  ne 
Pavaient  ete  de  Pautre,  non  pas  que  M. 
d  'Artagnan  n  'aimat  son  fils,  qui  etait  sa  seule 
progeniture,  mais  M.  d'Artagnan  etait  un 
homme,  et  il  eut  regarde  comme  indigne  d  'un 
homme  de  se  laisser  aller  a  son  emotion, 

58 


J.  M.  BARBIE 

tandis  que  madame  d'Artagnan  etait  femme 
et  de  plus  etait  mere.'' 

The  greatest  play  produced  by  the  war  is 
The  Old  Lady  Shows  Her  Medals,  It  is  a 
tragedy,  as  every  war-play  should  be.  Go- 
ing the  rounds  of  the  theatres  and  witnessing 
the  average  sentimental  melodrama  or  propa- 
ganda-thesis inspired  by  the  titanic  struggle, 
one  would  imagine  that  there  were  no  impor- 
tant casualties.  It  is  like  the  ironical  story  I 
once  read  of  a  railway  accident — *^only  the 
fireman.''  The  hero  invariably  comes  back 
in  triumph,  the  war  being  the  luckiest  and 
happiest  thing  in  his  life,  for  it  brought  him 
advancement,  fame,  and  love.  Barrie  is  too 
honest  for  any  sweetish  illusions.  Just  as 
he  takes  the  ordinary  themes  of  the  theatre 
in  times  of  peace,  and  creates  something  per- 
manent and  beautiful,  so  he  takes  the  uni- 
versal theme  of  the  war,  and  shows  how  its 
tragedy  reaches  down  into  the  humblest  lives. 
No  Oxford  or  Cambridge  here ;  we  have  only 
charwomen,  who  preserve  social  distinction 
with  more  rigidity  than  prevails  in  Mayfair. 
(A  favourite  theme  with  Barrie;  remember 
Crichton  below  stairs.     The  last  persons  who 

59 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DEAMATISTS 

will  ever  accept  democracy  are  the  servants.) 
**  Altogether,  she  is  of  a  very  different  social 
status  from  one  who,  like  Mrs.  Haggerty,  is 
a  charw^oman  but  nothing  else.'*  The  entire 
play  takes  place  under  ground,  like  Gorki's 
Night  Asylum,  which  in  other  respects  it  does 
not  resemble !  we  shall  see  that  the  basement 
will  be  illuminated  by  Love,  like  that  wonder- 
ful subterranean  home  of  Tolstoi's  shoe- 
maker. 

Four  of  them  are  having  tea,  with  Mrs. 
Dowey  as  hostess.  *  *  There  is  no  intention  on 
their  part  to  consider  peace  terms  until  a 
decisive  victory  has  been  gained  in  the  field 
(Sarah  Ann  Dowey),  until  the  Kaiser  is  put 
to  the  right-about  (Emma  Mickleham),  and 
singing  very  small  (Amelia  T^vymley).'' 
Their  pride  in  having  sons  at  the  front,  in 
owning  war  savings  certificates,  in  being  bit- 
ter-enders, is  precisely  like  that  of  their  sis- 
ters in  Park  Lane.  Across  every  title-page 
of  Barrie's  books  might  be  written,  **  Human 
nature  is  always  and  everywhere  the  same." 

Mrs.  Dowey 's  conquest  of  her  hypothetical 
son  cannot  possibly  be  described;  only  Bar- 
rie,  with  his  insight  born  of  divine  sympathy, 
could    have    imagined    it.     The    big,    rough 

60 


J.  M.  BARRIE 

** chunk  of  Scotland/'  burstin^^  with  vitality, 
leaves  her  for  the  front,  as  his  time  is  up; 
we  hear  him  in  the  street;  **that  is  he  laugh- 
ing coarsely  with  Dixon.  .  .  .''  In  the  last 
scene  not  a  word  is  spoken.  Kenneth  has 
been  killed.  The  *^old  lady''  is  in  her  work- 
ing-clothes, about  to  start  off  for  her  day's 
toil.  But  before  going,  she  shows  her 
medals. 

It  is,  like  all  Barrie  's  plays,  like  the  story 
of  every  human  life,  a  tragi-comedy.  The 
early  scenes  arouse  inextinguishable  laugh- 
ter; in  the  last  act,  the  ordinary  relation  of 
audience  to  stage  is  reversed.  Instead  of 
noise  on  the  stage  and  silence  in  the  audi- 
torium, the  solitary  woman  moved  about  in 
absolute  stillness  while  unrestrained  sobbing 
was  heard  all  over  the  house.  I  could  no 
more  help  crying  than  I  could  help  breathing. 

The  heroine  is  a  charwoman,  elevated  to  a 
vertiginous  height  by  solemn  pride. 

The  latest  play  to  fall  within  the  scope  of 
this  essay  (how  happy  I  am  that  I  cannot 
make  it  complete !)  is  Dear  Brutus y  which  had 
its  first  regular  American  performance  in 
New  York,  23  December  1918,  and  ran  until 
the  closing  of  the  theatre  in  hot  weather. 

61 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DEAMATISTS 

The  title  of  course  is  taken  from  the  speech  of 
Cassius  in  Julius  Ccesar: 

The  fault,  dear  Brutus,  is  not  in  our  stars, 
But  in  ourselves,  that  we  are  underlings. 

^  But  I  think  the  germ  of  the  play  and  its 
main  idea  are  to  be  found  in  The  Admirable 
Crichton,  in  one  of  the  stage  directions  of  the 
third  act :  the  slacker  Ernest,  transformed  in 
appearance  by  Crichton 's  discipline,  appears 
hard  at  work,  and  here  is  the  comment  by  the 
dramatist : 

We  should  say  that  he  is  Ernest  completely 
changed  if  we  were  of  those  who  hold  that 
people  change. 

t  That  people  do  not  change  is  the  law  of 
which  this  drama  is  a  brilliant  illustration 
and  like  all  rules  it  is  proved  by  its  excep- 
tions.   All  the  persons  of  the  play,  have,  by 

.the  magical  agency  of  Lob  (see  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream)  a  second  chance;  and  al- 
though their  circumstances  are  different, 
their  characters  are  the  same.  With  one  ex- 
ception. The  artist  and  his  wife,  at  the  close 
of  the  play,  seek  out  a  new  and  better  exist- 
ence, because  they  have  passed  through  a 

62 


J.  M.  BARBIE 

spiritual  revolution.  The  fault  then  really  is 
in  ourselves,  and  Barrie  is  true  to  the  Shakes- 
pearean quotation.  Ninety-nine  out  of  a 
hundred  would  be  the  same,  even  if  they  had 
their  heart's  desire — an  opportunity  to  try 
again ;  but  there  is  the  hundredth  man.  The 
play  is  disheartening  when  we  think  of  the 
average  person ;  but  inspiring  when  we  think 
of  the  possibilities  of  human  nature.  The 
one  hope  of  the  world  is  not  that  human 
nature  will  change,  for  it  never  will.  The 
hope  lies  in  the  possibility  of  controlling 
human  instincts,  in  the  coming  of  that  time 
when  man's  energy,  conscience,  reason,  and 
will  power  will  control  his  passions,  rather 
than  being  their  obedient  servants. 

Nothing  could  surpass,  it  would  seem,  the 
skill  in  construction  shown  in  this  comedy. 
The  curtain  has  not  been  up  two  minutes  be- 
fore the  audience  are  in  a  fever  of  suspense 
and  excitement.  This  is  caused  not  by  any 
melodramatic  event,  but  by  intense  curiosity, 
arising  out  of  the  conversation  of  some  ladies 
returning  from  the  dining-room.  Barrie 
possersses  the  power  of  clutching  the  mind 
of  an  audience  in  the  initial  moment.  W^e 
simply  must  know  what  is  behind  all  this  talk. 

63 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

In  the  American  performance,  the  play  was 
adequately  acted  by  every  man  and  woman  in 
the  cast ;  and  the  initial  effect  was  heightened 
by  the  butler,  whose  part  was  given  to  one 
of  the  most  capable  and  intelligent  actors  in 

^  the  world,  Mr.  Louis  Calvert.  This  butler  is 
no  Admirable  Crichton ;  his  petty  thieving  in 
the  first  act  continues  on  a  colossal  scale  in 
the  second,  when  he  is  a  millionaire  (Barrie 
the  true  democrat).  And  in  the  third  act, 
he  slips  back  into  servility  as  smoothly  as  an 
old  shoe,  and  not  by  a  mighty  consecrated 

t  self-sacrifice,  as  in  the  former  drama.  Bar- 
rie will  not  say  that  one  person  is  a  con- 
temptible sneak  thief,  and  the  other  a  king 
of  finance;  the  second  is  merely  a  rascal  on 
a  bigger  scale.  Why  may  we  not  draw  the 
same  comparison  between  an  electrocuted 
murderer  and  Napoleon  Bonaparte? 

The  second  act  is  in  fairy  land.  It  is  like 
the  life  after  death,  where  Barriers  phi- 
losophy has  the  mighty  support  of  the  Apo- 
calypse. **He  that  is  unjust,  let  him  be  un- 
just still:  and  he  which  is  filthy,  let  him  be 
filthy  still:  and  he  that  is  righteous,  let  him 
be  righteous  still :  and  he  that  is  holy,  let  him 
be  holy  still.  * '    Even  in  the  gorgeous  scenery 

64 


J.  M.  BAERIE 

of  Paradise,  human  nature  does  not  change; 
and  it  does  not  change  in  the  beauty  of  Bar- 
rie's  moonlit  forest. 

This  same  second  act  brought  in  a  love 
duet — in  the  key  of  conversation,  but  purely 
lyrical — between  a  father  and  his  imaginary  ' 
daughter.  In  the  American  performance, 
this  will  remain  vivid  in  the  minds  of  those 
who  heard  it;  for  the  two  actors  were  a  be- 
loved veteran  of  the  stage,  William  Gillette, 
and  a  young  girl,  hardly  more  than  a  child, 
Helen  Hayes,  who  passed  from  obscurity  to 
fame  in  less  than  an  hour. 

It  seemed  incredible  that  the  third  act  could 
be  anything  but  an  anticlimax;  but  there  is 
no  surer  proof  of  Barriers  genius  than  his 
last  acts,  the  final  test  of  constructive  power. 
I  will  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  even  in  most 
successful  plays,  the  last  act  is  either  a  down- 
right failure  or  at  best  a  falling  away.  But 
in  Dear  Brutus,  as  in  The  Admirable  Crich- 
ton,  in  What  Every  Woman  Knows,  and  in 
all  Barriers  plays,  the  last  act  crowns  the 
work. 

Barrie  is  not  a  self-appointed  prophet;  he 
doesVnot  assume  intellectual  leadership;  he 
is  neither  cynic  nor  schoolmaster;  he  never 

65 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

scolds;  but  he  has  done  more  to  elevate  the 
English  stage  than  any  other  man  of  our  time. 
And  he  has  accomplished  this  simply  by  writ- 
ing plays  that  are  built  on  the  permanent 
foundations  of  human  nature,  that  are  full 
of  action,  shining  with  brilliant  dialogue, 
sparkling  with  wit  and  humour,  heart-shaking 
with  tragedy,  and  clean  as  the  west  wind. 
His  is  the  drama  of  ideas,  as  distinguished 
from  the  drama  of  opinions. 

Barrie  's  plays  are  the  shows  of  this  world. 
He  gives  us  pictures  of  all  humanity — our 
follies,  our  impossible  and  futile  dreams,  our 
sordidness,  our  nobility,  our  vanity;  and  he 
accomplishes  this  without  a  trace  of  venom 
or  of  scorn,  without  a  flavour  of  superiority ; 
he  loves  men,  women,  and  children.  But  in 
him  Love  is  never  blind. 


66 


GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

Although  Ireland  has  never  contributed  to 
English  Literature  a  poet  of  the  first  rank,  to 
English  prose  in  general  and  to  the  drama  in 
particular  her  additions  have  been  frequent 
and  important.  If  I  had  to  name  the  great- 
est master  of  English  prose  style,  I  should 
vote  for  Jonathan  Swift.  Think  of  the  im- 
mense richness  of  English  Literature  between 
1640  and  1892,  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  of 
daily  book-making;  yet  in  that  span  of  time, 
there  are  only  three  dramas  that  continue 
to  shine,  and  they  were  written  by  two  Irish- 
men, Goldsmith  and  Sheridan.  In  the  year 
1892,  British  Drama  came  to  life  again,  and 
once  more  by  means  of  two  Irishmen,  Ber- 
nard Shaw  and  Oscar  Wilde.  The  so-called 
stolid  Englishmen  are  incurable  Romantics, 
which  may  be  a  reason  that  they  write  such 
wonderful  poetry ;  the  excitable  and  tempera- 
mental Irish  are  masters  of  the  fine  weapons 
of  comedy  and  satire,  which  require  for  ac- 

67 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DEAMATISTS 

curacy  of  thrust  a  cool  head  and  a  steady 
hand. 

It  is  the  same  difference  which  is  so  strange 
and  yet  so  obvious  as  that  which  separates 
English  from  French  literature.  The  Eng- 
lish are  sober  in  politics  and  intoxicated  by 
romance;  the  glory  of  their  literature  is 
poetry  and  the  romantic  drama.  The  French 
are  hot-headed  and  fickle  in  politics,  whereas 
in  literature  their  ideal  is  self-restraint  and 
reserve.  They  have  produced  an  amazing 
number  of  great  prose  writers,  for  which 
their  admirable  language  seems  particularly 
designed.  In  poetry — well,  the  poets  who 
seem  to  foreigners  their  best  are  not  accepted 
at  all  by  many  Frenchmen. 

In  addition  to  the  work  of  Oscar  Wilde  and 
Bernard  Shaw,  the  present  great  age  of  Eng- 
lish Drama  has  been  enriched  by  the  plays  of 
J.  M.  Synge,  W.  B.  Yeats,  Lady  Gregory, 
Lord  Dunsany  and  St.  John  Ervine.  The 
omissions  in  this  list  would  enrage  some 
critics,  but  I  include  only  those  playwrights 
of  international  reputation.  In  the  republic 
of  art,  it  is  more  important  to  be  an  artist 
than  a  patriot,  or  even  a  personality.    Un- 

68 


GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

questionably  the  greatest  personality  in  Ire- 
land to-day  is  ^.  But  he  is  not  the  greatest 
dramatist. 

In  one  respect  Shaw  is  just  the  opposite  of 
Hamlet.  They  agree  that  the  world  is  out  of 
joint ;  but  Shaw's  chief  happiness  comes  from 
the  thought  that  he  was  born  to  set  it  right. 
No  one  has  ever  had  so  good  a  time  lecturing 
humanity.  If  we  in  the  audience  enjoy  his 
wit  so  much,  think  what  delight  it  must  give 
him.     He  hears  it  first. 

Perhaps  no  man  of  our  time — except  John 
Morley — has  lived  so  exclusively  the  life  of 
reason.  Shaw  is  unaffected  by  public  senti- 
ment— we  always  say  public  sentiment,  public 
opinion,  never  public  reason.  Reason  is  a 
private  and  individual  affair,  and  has  nothing 
to  do  with  a  crowd,  a  community,  or  a  nation. 
Reason  is  a  steady  light.  A  man  can  look  at 
a  will  o'  the  wisp,  but  he  cannot  read  a  book 
by  it,  or  trust  its  guidance. 

Perhaps  it  is  not  quite  true  to  say  that 
Shaw  is  unaffected  by  public  sentiment  for  it 
does  affect  him  negatively.  It  affords  him  a 
daily  text  for  satire.  He  might  say  with 
Touchstone,  **It  is  meat  and  drink  to  me  to 

69 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEKN  DRAMATISTS 

see  a  clown ;  by  my  troth,  we  that  have  good 
wits  have  much  to  answer  for;  we  shall  be 
flouting;  we  cannot  hold/' 

And  as  he  is  never  turned  from  his  course 
by  public  sentiment,  so  the  ordinary  emotions 
of  humanity,  the  passion  in  the  blood,  the  love 
of  a  home,  the  passion  of  patriotism,  the  love 
of  war,  the  worship  of  heroes,  the  idealisation 
of  ordinary  life, — he  breathes  the  pure  air  of 
reason,  apart  from  these  mists.  He  was  not 
married  until  he  was  over  forty,  he  sees  only 
the  evil  side  of  patriotism,  he  hates  war,  he 
reduces  Napoleon,  Csesar,  and  Shakespeare  to 
ordinary  dimensions,  he  believes  that  nothing 
that  glitters  is  really  gold.  He  will  eat  no 
meat;  and  his  favorite  recreation  is  ** any- 
thing except  sport.'' 

It  is  impossible  to  believe  that  in  normal 
times  he  does  not  enjoy  this  splendid  isola- 
tion. *^It  is  a  pleasure  to  stand  upon  the 
shore,  and  to  see  ships  tossed  upon  the  sea ; 
a  pleasure  to  stand  in  the  window  of  a  castle, 
and  to  see  a  battle  and  the  adventures  thereof 
below;  but  no  pleasure  is  comparable  to  the 
standing  upon  the  vantage  ground  of  truth 
(where  the  air  is  always  clear  and  serene) 
and  to  see  the  errors,  and  wanderings,  and 

70 


GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

mists,  and  tempests,  in  the  vale  below.'' 
I  say  he  enjoys  this  isolation  in  normal 
times.  The  life  of  reason  being  perforce  as 
solitary  as  the  life  of  asceticism — when  the 
whole  community  is  swept  by  one  mighty 
wave  of  passion,  as  in  the  abnormal  tidal 
wave  of  war,  then  there  is  no  place  at  all  for 
the  individualist.  The  lover  of  literal  truth 
must  sacrifice  this  intellectual  luxury  for  the 
other  aspect  of  truth,  which  is  Loyalty.  A 
man  can  be  true  to  facts,  and  untrue  to  a 
cause  or  to  a  person. 

What  so  false  as  truth  is, 
False  to  thee  ? 

As  millions  sacrifice  their  homes,  their 
property,  their  comforts,  their  limbs  and  their 
lives,  so  the  few  whose  dearest  possession  is 
the  love  of  truth,  find  that  they  must  sacrifice 
that.  This  is  one — and  not  the  least — of  the 
innumerable  evils  of  war.  People  suffer  in 
their  hearts,  but  also  in  their  minds.  Some 
cannot  understand  this  latter  pain,  because 
they  have  no  mind.  In  the  World  War,  as  we 
stand  in  the  presence  of  those  who  have  lost 
their  health  and  activity,  and  of  those  who 
have  lost  members  of  their  family,  we  can  say 

71 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

nothing;  we  can  only  silently  nncover  and 
salnte.  But  there  is  another  tragedy — the 
tragedy  of  the  crneified  Mind,  which  few  un- 
derstand. I  think  very  few  comprehend  what 
agony  and  torture  men  like  John  Morley  and 
Bernard  Shaw  suffered  every  day  during  the 
years  from  1914  to  1918.  They  had  spent 
their  lives  in  the  pleasant  glow  of  reason; 
now  there  was  darkness  everywhere. 

0  judgment,  thou  art  fled  to  brutish  beasts, 
And  men  have  lost  their  reason ! 

In  the  case  of  Shaw,  his  nemesis  was  the 
nemesis  of  every  honest  man  who  has  never- 
theless minimised  the  virtues  of  loyalty  and 
cooperation.  These  too,  are  real  virtues,  al- 
most the  only  ones  in  times  of  universal  peril. 
The  lonely  philosopher  may  not  fear  the  scorn 
of  the  crowd;  but  he  must  fear  his  solitude, 
as  he  eats  out  his  own  heart.  And  his  seren- 
ity must  be  clouded  by  the  doubt  as  to 
whether  after  all  his  way  is  the  only  way. 

If  any  one  believes  that  I  have  pictured 
Shaw's  tragedy  too  sombrely,  I  suggest  that 
he  read  the  preface  to  Heartbreak  House. 
That  book  was  treated  harshly  in  almost 
every  review  of  it ;  there  is  no  harshness  like 

72 


GEOKGE  BERNAED  SHAW 

the  brutality  that  cannot  understand.  With 
the  exception  of  a  few  sentences — Shaw's 
genius  was  ever  greater  than  his  taste — the 
preface  should  be  read  with  sympathy,  if  not 
with  reverence;  for  it  is  the  confession  of  a 
pilgrim  and  a  stranger  in  this  world. 

Shaw  has  spent  his  life  trying  to  make 
people  listen  to  him — he  became  a  dramatist 
partly  by  accident,  and  only  after  he  had 
tried  other  forms  of  address.  He  used  the 
drama,  as  the  Elizabethans  used  it,  because 
in  1600  and  in  1900  drama  was  the  highest 
form  of  expression,  the  best  channel  of  ideas. 
Like  Barrie  and  Galsworthy,  he  had  been  a 
novelist — in  the  eighties  he  wrote  novels  so 
brilliant  that  it  seems  amazing  that  they  at- 
tracted no  attention.  When  William  Archer, 
who  has  introduced  so  many  good  things  to 
the  British  public,  sent  Stevenson  a  copy  of 
Casliel  Byron's  Profession,  Stevenson  went 
into  a  delirium  of  rapture.  ^*If  he  has  writ- 
ten any  other,  I  beg  you  will  let  me  see  it.*' 
In  a  subsequent  letter,  ^^Tell  Shaw  to  hurry 
up:  I  want  another.'' 

Shaw's  early  plays  attracted  no  general  at- 
tention, and  from  1895  to  1898  he  was  Drama- 
tic Critic  for  the  Saturday  Review.    Fortu- 

73 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

nately  his  criticisms  were  subsequently 
(1906)  published  in  two  thick  volumes,  under 
the  heading  Dramatic  Opinions  and  Essays, 
He  has  also  written  much  criticism  of  music, 
and  his  modernity  was  established  by  his 
continual  efforts  in  behalf  of  those  two 
mighty  men,  Wagner  and  Ibsen. 

It  was  not  until  the  year  1898  that  he  be- 
came famous,  the  cause  of  his  fame  being  the 
publication  of  two  volumes  of  Unpleasant  and 
Pleasant  Plays.  For  years  after  that  date 
he  was  regarded  as  more  dramatist  than 
playwright,  and  more  literary  than  either. 
Apart  from  the  intrinsic  worth  of  his  pro- 
ductions, he  owes  his  success  on  the  stage 
more  to  Granville  Barker  than  to  any  other 
man.  At  first  he  would  have  none  of  the  ef- 
forts of  Barker,  saying  that  it  was  impossible 
that  a  man  with  such  a  name  could  have  any 
intelligent  comprehension  of  his  work.  But 
Shaw  has  an  enormous  respect  for  pounds, 
shillings,  and  pence ;  no  business  man  among 
the  despised  Philistines  can  drive  a  better 
bargain,  or  is  more  tenacious  of  his  '^rights.'' 
Barker  convinced  Shaw  by  the  thing  that  is 
said  to  talk. 

No  wonder  we  learn  to  despise  public  opin- 
74 


GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

ion  when  we  find  over  and  over  again,  that 
in  matters  of  art,  at  all  events,  it  is  so  often 
not  only  incorrect,  but  the  exact  opposite  of 
the  truth.  **  Browning  is  a  philosopher,  but 
no  poet,''  and  there  is  no  poetry  more  beau- 
tiful. **  Wagner  is  ingenious,  but  cannot 
write  melodiously,''  and  his  operas  are  worth 
all  the  other  operas  in  the  world  put  together. 
*^  Ibsen  is  a  grim  and  morbid  pessimist,  but 
no  dramatist,"  and  his  plays  delight  audi- 
ences in  all  the  capitals  of  Europe.  ^^Shaw 
is  a  literary  satirist  and  iconoclast,  but  no 
playwright" — how  absurd  that  sounds,  when 
I  recall  the  thrilling  nights  at  the  theatre  lis- 
tening to  Androcles  and  the  Lion,  The  Doc- 
tor's Dilemma,  You  Never  Can  Tell,  Fanny's 
First  Play,  Major  Barbara,  Man  and  Super- 
man, Pygmalion,  Caesar  and  Cleopatra,  and 
many  others.  Instead  of  being  *^no  play- 
wright," he  is  one  of  the  greatest  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  stage.  The  man  who  wrote  the 
second  act  of  Major  Barbara  has  an  absolute 
genius  for  drama. 

In  the  days  of  his  obscurity,  he  was  always 
debating.  At  radical  meetings  he  mounted 
the  platform  on  every  possible  occasion,  and 
even  now,  when  his  real  audience  is  under 

75 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEKN  DRAMATISTS 

the  solitary  lamp,  his  chief  recreation,  his 
form  of  bodily  exercise  is  public  speaking. 
These  who  were  young  and  now  are  old  tes- 
tify to  the  power  of  his  rhetoric,  and  remem- 
ber the  inspiration ;  but  I  am  glad  he  became 
a  writer  of  books.  For  although  we  live  in 
the  golden  age  of  English  Drama,  the  Eng- 
lish Theatre  is  in  such  a  condition  that  a 
thousand  must  read  Bernard  Shaw  for  one 
who  can  hear  him. 

St.  John  Ervine  and  Henry  Nevinson  as- 
sert that  they  have  learned  more  from  and 
therefore  owe  more  to  Bernard  Shaw  than  to 
any  modern  man.  They  regard  him  as  the 
boldest,  most  courageous,  and  most  germinal 
thinker  of  our  time.  Yet  thousands  look 
upon  him  as  merely  a  public  entertainer,  in- 
deed as  a  clown.  When  all  is  said,  he  has 
more  admirers  than  disciples;  but  it  is  curi- 
ous that  one  of  the  stock  subjects  for  dis- 
cussion all  over  the  world  is  whether  or  not 
Bernard  Shaw  should  be  taken  seriously. 
This  is  of  course  partly  his  own  fault,  as  such 
a  confusion  necessarily  must  be;  his  ardent 
admirers  insist  that  Isaiah,  Jeremiah,  and 
Ezekiel  were  not  more  serious  or  earnest 
than  he. 

76  : 


GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

I  do  not  know  which  would  annoy  him  more 
— to  be  taken  for  a  jester,  or  to  be  literally 
followed.  To  take  a  man  of  genius  as  an 
amusement  is  certainly  unfortunate  for  the 
crowd;  but  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  worth 
while  to  remember  the  words  of  Oscar  Wilde : 
**In  a  temple  everyone  should  be  serious  ex- 
cept the  thing  worshipped/' 

As  to  whether  he  should  be  taken  seriously 
or  not,  there  can  be  only  one  true  answer. 
Art  is  always  to  be  taken  seriously. 
Whether  Bernard  Shaw  is  a  prophet  or  not, 
in  literature  he  is  a  star  of  the  first  magni- 
tude. Although  minor  poets  do  not  like  it, 
there  is  only  one  road  to  eminence  in  litera- 
ture, and  that  is  by  good  writing.  The  rea- 
son why  everybody  who  reads  anything  reads 
Bernard  Shaw  is  because  he  is  a  literary 
genius,  who  adorns  with  his  art  every  sub- 
ject that  he  touches.  It  does  not  make  any 
difference  whether  he  talks  about  this  or  that, 
he  captures  the  interest  of  the  reader  every 
time.  The  real  subject  of  all  his  remarks  is 
Bernard  Shaw — and  we  read  him  for  the 
same  reason  that  students  elect  courses  in 
college,  not  because  of  the  subject,  but  be- 
cause of  the  man  who  teaches  it.    Now  there 

77 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

are  so  many  dull  people  in  the  world,  and 
such  a  countless  number  of  dull  books,  that 
when  an  author  appears  who  is  certain  to 
interest  the  reader  every  time,  we  repay  him 
not  only  with  intellectual  homage,  but  with 
hearty  affection.  He  may  irritate  us,  he  may 
shock  us  so  that  we  say  this  is  the  last  time 
he  will  have  the  opportunity ;  but  in  our  heart 
of  hearts,  we  know  that  we  shall  read  his  next 
book.  The  fact  is  that  we  cannot  live  with- 
out our  literary  artists ;  we  always  place  them 
above  men  of  science  and  men  of  adventure, 
because  we  know  that  they  are  necessary  to 
brighten  the  monotony  of  our  lives.  The 
man  of  science  saves  you  from  death;  the 
man  of  letters  saves  you  from  life. 

To  many  Shaw  seems  like  a  nuisance ;  but 
there  is  only  one  kind  of  critic  who  is  really 
a  nuisance.  That  is  the  man  who  thinks  he 
is  filled  with  righteous  indignation,  when  in 
reality  he  is  only  peevish;  who,  instead  of 
being  pertinent,  is  petulant;  who  is  in  short 
a  common  scold.  Shaw  has  never  descended 
to  that  level.  He  is  a  nuisance  as  Conscience 
is  a  nuisance. 

While  Shaw  is  awake,  the  world  will  never 
go  to  sleep.     A  gadfly  is  a  torment,  but  if  one 

78 


GEORGE  BEENARD  SHAW 

were  sinking  in  a  stupour  in  a  snowdrift,  then 
an  active  gadfly  would  be  a  blessing.  Every 
institution,  every  organisation,  and  eveiy 
person  need  intelligent  opposition.  The  true 
teacher  needs  pupils  who  are  more  thoughtful 
than  docile ;  obedience  is  not  the  prime  virtue, 
even  in  school.  The  minister  would  profit  if 
there  were  men  in  every  congregation  who 
questioned  everything  he  said,  and  told  him 
so.  Without  intellectual  resistance  the 
teacher  and  the  preacher  grow  unctuous, 
flabby,  intolerable.  Ever^^  powerful  political 
party  needs  a  resourceful,  active,  relentless 
opposition.  Many  of  the  most  valuable  con^ 
tributions  to  the  Christian  Church  have  been  j 
made  by  those  who  were  determined  to  de-j 
stroy  it.     God  needs  the  Devil. 

Yet  those  who  believe  in  the  infallibility  of 
the  Pope  and  those  who  find  apparent  contra- 
dictions no  insurmountable  obstacle  to  faith, 
need  never  surrender  to  Shaw.  The  famous 
remark  applied  to  so  many  individuals  is  par- 
ticularly applicable  here.  The  Pope  is  not 
so  sure  of  anything  as  Shaw  is  of  everything. 
And  what  shall  we  say  of  the  consistency  of 
a  thinker  who  is  at  the  same  time  the  most 
extreme  individualist  in  the  world  and  the 

79 


1(: 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

strongest  Socialist?  It  is  like  trying  to  have 
Liberty  and  Equality  at  the  same  time.  You 
had  better  make  up  your  mind  which  you  pre- 
fer, or  you  will  get  neither.  You  cannot 
have  both. 

G.  K.  Chesterton  made  a  most  happy  com- 
parison, when  he  compared  Shaw's  philoso- 
phy with  coffee.  ^*I  have  often  been  haunted 
with  a  fancy  that  the  creeds  of  men  might  be 
paralleled  and  represented  in  their  bever- 
ages. Wine  might  stand  for  genuine  Cath- 
olicism and  ale  for  genuine  Protestantism; 
for  these  at  least  are  real  religions  with  com- 
fort and  strength  in  them.  Clean,  cold  Ag- 
nosticism would  be  clean,  cold  water — an  ex- 
cellent thing  if  you  can  get  it.  Most  modern 
ethical  and  idealistic  movements  might  be 
well  represented  by  soda  water,  which  is  a 
fuss  about  nothing.  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw's 
philosophy  is  'exactly  like  black  coffee — it 
awakens,  but  it  does  not  really  inspire. 
Modern  hygienic  materialism  is  very  like 
cocoa ;  it  would  be  impossible  to  express  one's 
contempt  for  it  in  stronger  terms  than  that." 

There  is  only  one  word  I  should  like  to 
change  in  Mr.  Chesterton's  liquid  language; 
X-^hottldliker  to  substitute  the  word  **jiour- 

80 


GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

ish''  for  the  word  Alinspire."  Black  coffee 
really  does  inspire,  and  so  does  Bernard 
Shaw;  but  they  give  no  nourishment.  Yet 
after  all  the  characterisation  was  true,  for 
Mr.  Chesterton  was  of  course  thinking  of 
English  coifee. 

Goethe  said  that  whenever  he  opened 
Kant's  Kritik  of  Pure  Reason,  he  felt  as  if 
he  had  stepped  into  a  brilliantly-lighted 
room.  With  less  genius  on  the  part  of 
reader  and  writer,  that  expresses  the  imme- 
diate effect  of  almost  any  of  Shaw's  books. 

Just  as  it  makes  no  difference  to  the  party 
man  what  principles  appear  in  the  platform 
or  what  candidate  attempts  to  stand  upon  it, 
for  he  will  support  the  regular  ticket  any- 
how, so  your  extreme  individualist  may  al- 
ways be  found  on  the  Opposition  bench. 
Bernard  Shaw  is  by  nature  an  individualist, 
a  free  lance,  a  rebel;  a  destructive  critic;  **I 
don't  know  who  the  new  Minister  of  Public 
Instruction  is,"  said  the  Frenchman,  *^but 
I'm  tired  of  him." 

The  individualist  has  no  responsibility,  and 
is  naturally  more  radical  than  those  in  power. 
There  are  so  many  more  things  in  the  world 
that  we  don't  want  than  there  are  that  we 

81 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

can 't  get,  that  the  radicals,  like  the  poor,  will 
be  always  with  us.  A  person  who  could 
not  see  in  an  hour's  walk  in  any  modern  city 
a  hundred  things  that  ought  to  be  changed, 
would  be  a  dull  observer.  Society  is  as  full 
of  faults  as  a  porcupine  is  of  quills,  and  they 
are  quite  as  obvious.  'Thus  it  is  compara- 
tively easy  to  attack,  either  with  the  bludgeon 
of  denunciation  or  the  rapier  of  satire;  diffi- 
culties begin  when  a  substitute  plan  that  will 
work,  is  called  for.  ^^ 

Who  is  it  who  said  that  so  soon  as  an  advo- 
cate of  anything  wins  a  disciple,  his  own  faith 
is  weakened?  Shaw  is  certainly  an  honest 
and  an  able  man.  Suppose  he  were  made 
Lord  Dictator  of  the  British  Empire,  with 
absolute  power,  would  the  Millennium  dawn  ? 
Should  we  really  be  much  better  off?  '  I  do 
not  know  what  his  plans  are;  but  I  think  it 
would  sober  him  considerably  if  they  were 
adopted.'^ 

It  cannot  be  said  that  we  need  men  like 
Shaw,  for  there  never  was  anyone  like  him, 
nor  will  there  ever  be ;  in  the  history  of  liter- 
ature, he  is  an  original  and  a  unique  figure. 
But  we  need  him.  We  need  him  as  Athens 
needed  Socrates;  as  the  Mediaeval  Church 

82 


GEOKGE  BEENARD  SHAW 

needed  Luther;  as  England  needed  Crom- 
well; as  France  needed  the  Revolution;  as 
George  III  needed  George  Washington. 

What  we  want  is  usually  quite  different 
from  what  we  need. 

Shaw's  pages  bristle  with  ideas;  and  every 
living  idea  is  a  challenge.  This  is  why  his 
plays  are  so  much  more  interesting  than  most 
plays.  They  answer  no  questions,  but  they 
ask  many.  For  some  in  the  audience  the  end 
of  his  play  is  the  beginning  of  mental  activity. 
Instead  of  giving  us  food,  he  gives  us  an 
appetite. 

Bernard  Shaw  in  one  respect  is  the  exact 
opposite  of  Shakespeare,  and  in  this  particu- 
lar his  dramas  are  the  oppomte  of  true  drama. 
Shakespeare  has  presented  every  aspect  of 
human  life,  and  we  do  not  know  whether  he 
was  a  Christian  or  an  atheist,  an  aristocrat 
or  a  democrat,  an  optimist  or  a  pessimist. 
His  plays  reach  the  goal  of  objective  art — 
there  is  no  alloy  of  the  author  in  any  of  the 
characters,  as  there  is  in  The  Ring  and  the 
Booh,    Now  Shaw  is  wholly  subjective;  eveni 
if  he  had  not  written  the  brilliant  Prefaces,' 
every  play  and  every  person  represent  the! 
author."^  That  he  did  write  the  Prefaces  is  a 

83 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

proof  of  his  aim ;  so  far  from  concealing  him- 
self, he  uses  every  means  to  reveal  himself. 

He  is  a  great  Teacher ;  and  if  you  ask  me, 
What  does  he  teach  ?  I  confess  I  do  not  know. 
The  main  business  of  the  teacher  is  not  to 
impart  information,  to  transfer  facts  from 
his  skull  to  the  skulls  of  the  pupils  with  as 
little  friction  as  possible.  The  business  of 
the  Teacher  is  to  raise  a  thirst.  Shawns 
melhad,  like  the  method  of  many  great  teach- 
i  ers,  is  the  P^mdos,.  Now  a  paradox,  taken 
literally,  may  be  absurd;  but  it  usually  con- 
tains some  important  truth.  Paradox  is 
oyer-emphasis,  and  every  teacher  knows  the 
value  of  emphasis.  A  curious  thing  about 
the  teaching  of  paradoxes  is  this ;  what  seems 
paradoxical  to  the  generation  to  whom  it  is 
delivered,  may  seem  reasonably  true  in  later 
centuries.  **This  was  some  time  a  paradox, 
but  now  the  time  gives  it  proof.'' 
/  The  paradox  method  of  teaching  was  the 
/method  employed  by  Socrates,  by  Thomas 
'  Carlyle,  by  Ibsen,  by  Nietzsche,  by  Browning; 
.  and  by  the  greatest  Teacher  in  all  history. 

Truth  is  many-sided,  and  all  sides  need 
emphasis.  The  main  thing  in  drama  is  em- 
phasis.   The  late  Paul  Armstrong  told  me 

84 


GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

once  in  his  own  peculiar  accents,  **  The  Ameri- 
can audience  has  got  just  a  quarter  of  an  inch 
exposed  between  the  hair  and  the  eyes,  see? 
The  business  of  the  dramatist  is  to  hit  that 
mark  with  a  wedge,  seeT'    I  saw. 

Although  Bernard  Shaw  is  an  original 
writer,  if  there  ever  were  one,  he  has  learned 
much  and  been  greatly  influenced  by  his  pre- 
decessors. That  he  has  been  profoundly  af- 
fected by  Schopenhauer,  Nietzsche,  and  Ib- 
sen would  be  perfectly  clear  even  if  he  had 
not  denied  it;  his  debt  to  Samuel  Butler  he 
takes  pleasure  in  acknowledging.  In  the 
Preface  to  Major  Barbara,  he  says,  '*The  late 
Samuel  Butler,  in  his  own  department  the 
greatest  English  writer  of  the  latter  half  of 
the  XIX  century,  steadily  inculcated  the 
necessity  and  morality  of  a  conscientious 
Laodiceanism  in  religion  and  of  an  earnest 
and  constant  sense  of  the  importance  of 
money.  It  drives  one  almost  to  despair  of 
English  literature  when  one  sees  so  extra- 
ordinary a  study  of  English  life  as  Butler's 
posthumous  Way  of  All  Flesh  making  so  little 
impression  that  when,  some  years  later,  I 
produce  plays  in  which  Butler's  extraordi- 
narily fresh,  free  and  future-piercing  sugges- 

85 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DKAMATISTS 

tions  have  an  obvious  share,  I  am  met  with 
nothing  but  vague  cacklings  about  Ibsen  and 
Nietzsche,  and  am  only  too  thankful  that  they 
are  not  about  Alfred  de  Musset  and  Georges 
Sand.  Eeally,  the  English  do  not  deserve  to 
have  great  men.  They  allowed  Butler  to  die 
practically  unknown,  whilst  I,  a  compara- 
tively insignificant  Irish  journalist,  was  lead- 
ing them  by  the  nose  into  an  advertisement 
of  me  which  has  made  my  own  life  a  burden. '* 
He  carries  the  burden  with  exceeding  ease; 
and  perhaps  one  reason  why  the  English  al- 
lowed Butler  to  die  practically  unknown  was 
because  he  would  not  allow  his  masterpieces 
to  be  published  while  he  was  alive. 

Although  Rousseau  and  Shaw  are  about  as 
different  as  two  men  could  be,  Rousseau's 
_weapon  being  Sentiment  and  Shaw 's  Reason, 
still  the  latter  shares  the  fate  of  all  modern 
artists,  thinkers,  and  writers  in  being  influ- 
enced by  Jean-Jacques,  who  was  not  only  the 
greatest  Force  but  the  greatest  Source  in 
modem  times.  Nothing  could  indicate  more 
clearly  that  the  mass  of  men  are  swayed  by 
emotion  rather  than  by  thought,  than  the  ab- 
solutely universal  influence  of  that  eight- 
eenth-century Frenchman.     I  had  not  sup- 

86 


GEORGE  BEENARD  SHAW 

posed  that  it  would  be  possible  to  point  out 
any  specific  indebtedness,  however,  until  I 
happened  to  see  in  The  Athenceum  some  years 
ago,  the  suggestion  that  Shaw  took  the  hint 
for  Pygmalion  from  Rousseau.  A  corre- 
spondent contributed  the  following : 

While  German  critics,  seeking  for  Quellen,  have 
been  attempting  to  trace  affinities  between  Mr. 
Shaw's  Pygmalion  and  a  play  of  Smollett,  a  far 
more  obvious  source  of  inspiration  has  been  over- 
looked. Rousseau 's  little  ' '  scene  lyrique, ' '  Pygma- 
lion, contains  these  lines  (Pj'gmalion  is  speaking)  : 

'*Je  me  suis  trompe:  j'ai  voulu  vous  faire 
nymphe,  et  je  vous  ai  faite  deesse." 

*'I1  te  manque  une  ame:  ta  figure  ne  pent  s'en 
passer. ' ' 

''Pygmalion,  ne  fais  plus  des  dieux,  tu  n'es  qu'un 
vulgaire  artiste." 

Dryden's  Prefaces  are  far  better  than  his 
Plays;  indeed  the  filth  and  stupidity  of  his 
comedies  do  not  counter-balance  the  splendid 
gift  of  their  introductions.  I  once  heard 
Mark  Twain  present  a  speaker  to  an  audi- 
ence, in  the  most  graceful,  witty,  and  brilliant 
fashion — and  the  speaker  could  not  say  a 
word,  but  stared  at  the  people  in  dumb  stage- 
fright.    It  would  be  agreeable  if  Dry  den's 

87 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

prefaces  had  been  written  for  blank-books. 
Now  I  mil  not  say  that  Shaw's  prefaces  are 
always  better  than  his  plays ;  but  he  has  spent 
to  advantage  as  much  time  on  the  art  of  pre- 
fatory writing  as  on  the  art  of  the  drama. 

His  prefaces  are  not  always  better  than 
his  plays,  but  they  are  sometimes.  If  it  be 
true  that  no  normal  woman  ever  reads  a  pre- 
face, what  would  she  think  of  Heartbreak 
H ousel  Imagine,  if  you  can,  an  intelligent 
woman,  who  finally  decides  that  she  must  read 
something  by  Shaw,  merely  in  self-defense. 
She  takes  up  the  volume,  Heartbreak  House, 
and  skips  the  preface.  What  does  she  find? 
She  finds  a  dull,  incomprehensible  play  called 
Heartbreak  House  that  fills  one  hundred  and 
twenty-two  pages;  it  has  all  the  apparent 
formlessness  of  Chekhov  without  any  of  his 
illuminating  genius ;  and  it  is  followed  by  five 
playlets,  only  one  of  which,  0' Flaherty  V.  C 
is  worthy  of  the  author.  That  is  a  sparkling 
jewel,  almost  lost  in  a  dustheap.  Her  puzzle, 
after  vainly  trying  to  comprehend  why  the 
book  was  published,  would  be  to  account  for 
the  international  reputation  of  G.  B.  S.^ 

1  However,  in  the  autumn  of  1920,  the  Theatre  Guild  in 
New  York  successfully  produced  Heartbreak  House. 

88 


GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

But  the  preface  is  one  of  the  most  pro- 
found, original,  and  to  the  sympathetic  mind,      / 
heart-breaking  essays  that  can  be  discovered   "^ 
in  modern  literature.    It  should  remain  as  a 
revelation  of  the  mind  of  a  philosopher  in 
time  of  war. 

The  preface  to  Androcles  and  the  Lion  is  a 
contribution  to  literature,  to  religion,  to 
political  economy,  to  sociology,  to  New  Testa- 
ment interpretation.  One  need  not  agree 
with  it  to  learn  from  it.  And  it  is  inspiring 
to  see  our  iconoclast  standing  in  reverence 
before  the  King  of  Kings. 

Although  Bernard  Shaw  ridicules  both 
human  conceit  and  most  dogmas,  no  writer 
— even  in  this  age  of  self-trumpeting — is 
more  egotistical  or  more  dogmatic.  This 
never  offends  most  lovers  of  his  works,  and 
it  remained  for  G.  K.  Chesterton  to  give  the 
reason.  In  the  New  York  Sun  for  1  Septem- 
ber 1918,  Mr.  Chesterton,  with  his  accus- 
tomed combination  of  wit  and  grandeur, 
says:  **I  revolt,  not  against  the  loud  egotist, 
but  the  gentle  egotist;  who  talks  tenderly  of 
trifles;  who  says  *A  sunbeam  gilds  the  amber 
of  my  cigarette-holder:  I  find  I  cannot  live 
without  a  cigarette-holder.'    I  resist  this  ar- 

89 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DKAMATISTS 

rogance  simply  because  it  is  more  arrogant. 
For  even  so  complete  a  fool  cannot  really 
suppose  we  are  interested  in  his  cigarette- 
holder;  and  therefore  must  suppose  that  we 
are  interested  in  him.  But  I  defend  a  dog- 
matic egotist  precisely  because  he  deals  in 
dogmas.  The  Apostles  Creed  is  not  re- 
garded as  a  pose  of  foppish  vanity;  yet  the 
word  ^I^  comes  before  even  the  word  'God.' 
The  believer  comes  first;  but  he  is  soon 
dwarfed  by  his  beliefs,  swallowed  in  the  cre- 
ative whirlwind  and  the  trumpets  of  the 
resurrection. '^ 

It  is  a  significant  fact  that  a  dramatist  does 
not  have  to  be  successful  at  the  box-office  in 
order  to  exert  a  powerful  influence  on  the 
modern  stage.  Many  honest  folk  sincerely 
believe  that  a  play,  in  order  to  be  called  a 
play  at  all,  must  be  written  primarily  for  the 
box-office,  but  fortunately  for  the  cause  of 
art,  such  a  belief  is  not  justified  in  the  world 
of  fact  any  more  than  in  the  moral  world. 
Nearly  all  the  plays  of  Hauptmann  have  been 
^'failures'';  even  in  his  own  land  he  is  not 
presented  nearly  so  often  as  some  of  his  con- 
temporaries; but  his  influence  on  the  art  of 
the  theatre,  on  play-writing,  has  been  and  is 
90 


GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

wide  and  deep.  Ibsen  is  seen  on  the  stage 
seldom  in  France,  England,  and  America ;  but/ 
every  modern  playwright,  except  Rostandi 
has  been  affected  by  Ibsen.  On  the  othe^r 
hand  an  astonishingly  successful  dramatist, 
like  Somerset  Maugham,  for  example,  has  had 
no  influence  at  all;  modern  dramatic  history 
would  be  the  same  if  he  had  never  written  a 
play.  In  art  it  is  always  quality,  not  quan- 
tity, that  counts. 

Bernard  Shaw  is  a  living  force  in  the  mod- 
ern German  drama  of  ideas,  not  because  he 
is  seen  on  the  stage  in  Germany,  though  for- 
tunately his  plays  frequently  do  appear  there, 
but  because  the  leaders  of  modem  German 
drama  study  him  with  zeal.  I  wish  I  knew 
the  exact  relation  between  Shawns  Ccesar  and 
Cleopatra  and  Hermann  Bahr's  JosepMne. 
Hermann  Bahr  is  one  of  the  most  distin- 
guished writers  now  living.  His  comedy  Das 
Konzert  is  one  of  the  great  comedies  of  the 
present  era,  although  those  w^ho  saw  it  trans- 
formed and  deformed  in  the  American  ver- 
sion might  not  think  so.  The  play  Josephine 
is  magnificent  when  properly  acted;  I  saw  a 
thrilling  performance  in  Munich.  Now  the 
treatment  of  Napoleon  both  in  the  drama 

91 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

itself,  and  in  the  philosophical  introduction, 
certainly  calls  to  mind  Shaw's  treatment  of 
Caesar  and  to  a  less  extent  the  treatment  of 
Napoleon  in  TJie  Man  of  Destiny,  This  lat- 
ter play  was  written  in  1895,  rejected  by 
Richard  Mansfield  (for  whom  it  was  written) 
in  1897,  and  first  published  in  1898 — it  was 
not  acted  in  Germany  until  1904.  The  same 
year,  1898,  which  saw  the  publication  of  The 
Man  of  Destiny^  was  made  memorable  by  the 
composition  of  Cccsar  and  Cleopatra,  and  the 
production  of  Josephine  in  Germany.  In 
1900  Cccsar  and  Cleopatra  was  published. 
Apparently  Josephine  was  written  just  prior 
to  the  composition  of  Cccsar  and  Cleopatra 
and  to  the  publication  of  The  Man  of  Destiny, 
Yet  it  seems  as  though  there  must  be  some 
vital  relation  between  the  German  and  the 
English  plays.  Archibald  Henderson,  in  his 
monumental  Life  of  Shaw,  perhaps  the  most 
completely  documented  biography  ever  pro- 
duced of  a  living  man,  contents  himself  with 
saying,  **The  German  Shaw,  Hermann  Bahr, 
has  paralleled,  if  not  followed,"  etc.  But 
that  is  exactly  what  I  should  like  to  know; 
did  he  parallel  or  did  he  follow  him?  We 
know  that  Bahr  has  an  immense  admiration 

92 


GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

for  the  Irish  dramatist ;  he  says  a  Shaw  pre- 
miere is  as  great  an  event  in  Berlin  as  a 
Hauptmann  premiere ,  he  has  written  acute 
criticisms  of  Shaw's  plays;  which  were  pub- 
lished too  late  to  throw  any  light  on  the  ques- 
tion of  influence. 

One  remark  by  Bahr  should  be  remembered 
by  every  one  who  reads  The  DeviVs  Disciple; 
we  know  how  angry  the  author  was  when  the 
actor  put  in  love-business,  in  order  to  ascribe 
a  motive  for  the  sacrifice,  possibly  because  he 
thought  the  audience  would  not  understand 
it  othermse,  possibly  because  he  could  not 
understand  it  himself;  the  whole  point  was 
that  the  hero  did  not  himself  know  why  he 
behaved  in  such  a  manner.  Bahr  is  speaking 
only  generally,  but  the  statement  applies  par- 
ticularly to  this  play:  *^This  very  uncertainty 
in  the  elements  of  our  primitive  feelings,  j/^ 
Shaw  expresses  with  a  mad,  malicious  joy. 
Indeed,  one  might  say,  first  and  foremost, 
that  Shaw  is  the  poet  of  our  uncertainty." 

It  is  significant  of  public  taste  that  Shaw's 
success  from  the  financial  point  of  view  dates 
from  1905  in  America,  and  1911  in  England, 
and  in  each  instance  from  one  of  the  least 
important  of  his  works.    It  was  not  until 

93 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

Arnold  Daly  put  on  You  Never  Can  Tell  in 
New  York  that  the  theatre-going  public  were 
converted  in  America,  and  not  until  Gran- 
ville Barker  produced  Fanny  ^s  First  Play — 
which  ran  two  years — that  London  audiences 
discovered  the  author's  powers  of  entertain- 
ment. Yet  Eichard  Mansfield,  Forbes  Eob- 
ertson,  and  Ellen  Terry  had  all  appeared  in 
plays  by  Shaw. 

The  typical  British  attitude  toward  Ber- 
nard Shaw — even  that  of  dramatic  critics — is 
curiously  illustrated  by  the  English  corre- 
spondent of  the  New  York  Sun^  in  a  two- 
column  article  published  24  May  1908,  under 
/the  heading  Shaw  Puzzles  the  Critics.    * '  The 
I   greatest  dramatist  and  the  greatest  conversa- 
y  J  tionalist  in  England  each  treated  the  public 
\  to  a  new  play  this  week.    The  dramatist  dis- 
/  appointed  one  audience  and  his  critics,  and 
the   conversationalist   alternately  perplexed 
and  enraged  the  other,  which  is  probably  just 
what  he  intended  to  do.    A  play  from  the  pen 
of  that  master  of  stagecraft  Pinero  and  a 
series  of  brilliant  ideas  and  epigrams  from 
that  mental  gymnast  Bernard  Shaw  make  an 
eventful  dramatic  week,  even  though  both 

94 


GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

efforts  fell  far  below  the  standard  hoped  for 
by  the  followers  of  their  originators.*' 

These  are  strange  pronouncements.  Pi- 
nero  was  not  the  *' greatest  dramatist  be- 
cause Barrie,  Shaw,  and  Galsworthy  are 
greater;  and  the  play  that  **fell  far  below*' 
was  The  Thunderbolt,  which  is  perhaps 
Pinero's  masterpiece,  or  at  all  events  one  of 
the  best  three  among  his  numerous  works. 
That  the  critics  were  puzzled  by  Getting  Mar- 
ried  is,  however,  quite  true.  After  Shaw  had 
read  the  fulminations,  he  remarked,  ^^The 
whole  explanation  of  their  criticism  is  this. 
They  were  unanimous  in  liking  the  first  act 
best,  the  second  act  much  less  and  the  third 
act  not  at  all.  They  want  to  know  what  I 
mean  by  the  third  act.  Well,  the  first  act  is 
farcical  comedy,  which  they  understand  and 
like,  the  second  act  is  sociological  comedy, 
which  they  do  not  understand  or  like,  and  the 
third  act  is  dramatic  poetry,  which  is  simply 
Chinese  to  them.*' 

It  will  be  remembered  that  in  1916  William 
Faversham  presented  Getting  Married  in 
New  York,  and  that  it  was  fairly  successful. 

Even  if  Shaw  were  not  a  genius  in  litera- 
95 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEKN  DRAMATISTS 

ture  and  drama,  which  he  assuredly  is,  he 
could  not  have  failed  to  attract  some  atten- 
tion merely  by  the  size  of  the  forces  he  at- 
tacks. He  is  like  a  man  on  a  crowded  pave- 
ment, who  is  the  only  person  in  the  throng 
** going  his  way.*'  The  mere  friction  of  his 
advance  w^ould  draw  universal  attention,  and 
arouse  irritation  from  all  against  whom  he 
rubbed.  He  has  decided  to  fight  the  ordinary 
view  of  religion,  the  ordinary  view  of  the 
V  state;  what  is  more  the  universal  love  of 
romance.  In  the  year  1898,  in  the  Preface 
to  the  Four  Pleasant  Plays,  he  wrote,  **my 
conception  of  romance  as  the  great  heresy  to 
be  rooted  out  from  art  and  life — as  the  root 
of  modern  pessimism  and  the  bane  of  modern 
self-respect.''  ^^Idealism,  which  is  only  a 
flattering  name  for  romance  in  politics  and 
morals,  is  as  obnoxious  to  me  as  romance  in 
ethics  or  religion." 

It  is  easier  to  understand,  after  reading 
that  Preface,  why  it  is,  with  all  his  skill  as  a 
playwright  and  all  his  brilliancy  in  dialogue, 
that  those  of  us  who  delight  in  seeing  his 
plays  presented  have  still  for  the  most  part 
to  depend  on  freak  theatres  and  repertory 
companies.  The  ordinary  theatre-goer  is 
96 


GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 

ready  to  surrender  to  the  atmosphere  of  ro- 
mance; and  what  he  gets  is  a  cold  douche. 
Shaw's  plays  are  cleanly,  antiseptic,  stimu- 
lating ;  his  laughter  clears  the  air.  But  plays 
that  substitute  the  laughter  of  reason  for  the 
warm  glow  of  romance  lack  something  that  is 
generally  believed  to  be  essential ;  instead  of 
having  an  emotional  interest,  they  have  the 
keen  play  of  dialectic.  It  is  the  same  with 
his  characters ;  even  his  greatest  single  char- 
acter, Candida,  has  no  charm;  there  is  in  all 
his  plays  only  one  figure  that  has  any  charm, 
and  that  is  the  Lion.  The  beast  is  irresist- 
ible; everybody  in  the  audience  wants  to 
stroke  him. 

It  would  be  enormously  interesting  if 
Shakespeare  in  his  plays  had  told  us  about 
his  contemporaries,  about  currents  of  Eliza- 
bethan thought,  and  had  expressed  his  opin- 
ions ;  but  he  invariably  chose  to  be  universal 
rather  than  local.  This  is  why  in  the  year 
1920  he  is  more  contemporary  than  the  morn- 
ing paper,  because  while  he  is  never  per- 
sonal, he  is  always  true.  Shaw  complains 
of  Shakespeare's  silences,  but  Shakespeare 
chose  to  deal  with  human  life  rather  than 
with  human  opinions.    I  fervently  hope  that 

97 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

Shaw 's  plays  will  last ;  that  in  a  century  from 
now,  they  will  appear  on  the  stage  more  fre- 
quently than  they  do  to-day;  but  if  not,  it 
will  be  because  of  their  modernity.  The  very 
reason  for  their  interest  and  applicability 
may  be  the  reason  for  their  remaining  on  the 
shelves.  Already  Ibsen  ^s  DolVs  House  is  be- 
ginning to  seem  more  old-fashioned  than 
Ibsen's  Pretenders, 

But  if  they  cease  to  attract  audiences,  it  is 
incredible  that  they  should  cease  to  attract 
readers.  Students  of  social  history  will  be 
compelled  to  study  them,  and  those  who  love 
the  pure  art  of  literature  will  not  be  able  to 
leave  them  alone. 


98 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

The  speed  ^\ith  which  John  Galsworthy 
climbed  from  the  vale  of  obscurity  to  the 
heights  of  fame  is  more  than  a  tribute  to  his 
ability;  it  is  a  proof  that  popular  taste  is 
better  than  those  who  form  it  seem  to  think. 
His  novels  and  his  plays  have  no  tricks ;  the 
deserts  of  his  tragedies  have  no  springs  of 
laughter;  even  on  the  stage  he  usually  ap- 
peals moreTo  reason  than  to  sentiment;  his.^ 
vitality  is  the  vitality  of  the  mind  rather 
than  of  the  passions;  he  seems  to  think  that 
the  drama  is  an  art,  not  a  trade. 

Nor  was  his  reputation  made  by  one  novel, 
or  one  play,  or  one  lucky  hit.  It  was  made  by 
a  rapid  succession  of  masterpieces.  A  life- 
time of  arduous  endeavour  would  seem  too 
short  for  what  he  accomplished  in  eight  years. 
From  1906  to  1914  he  produced  the  following 
works.  Novels:  The  Man  of  Property,  The 
Country  House,  Fraternity,  The  Patrician, 
The  Dark  Flower.    Plays:  The  Silver  Box, 

99 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

Strife,  Justice,  The  Eldest  Son,  The  Pigeon, 
The  Fugitive.  During  these  eight  years  he 
found  time  to  write  and  produce  other  books 
not  so  notable,  and  during  the  war — though 
actively  engaged  in  helping — he  produced 
three  novels,  some  essays  and  verses,  and  has 
now  (1920)  published  three  new  plays,  and 
a  full  length  novel.  Though  his  books  natu- 
rally vary  in  value,  he  has  never  printed  any- 
thing negligible. 

Our  three  foremost  living  English- writing 
dramatists  represent,  curiously  enough,  Eng- 
land, Scotland,  Ireland.  Shaw  is  an  Irish- 
man :  Barrie  is  a  Scot ;  Galsworthy  is  an  Eng- 
lishman. 

John  Galsworthy  is  purely  English  in 
birth,  breeding,  and  education.  He  was  born 
in  Surrey,  and  passed  through  the  tj^pical 
preliminaries  leading  to  the  career  of  Eng- 
lish gentleman.  He  spent  five  years  at  Har- 
row, and  three  years  at  New  College,  Oxford. 
In  his  undergraduate  days  he  gave  little  indi- 
cation of  the  intense  seriousness  that  was 
later  to  be  his  main  characteristic;  he  was 
indeed  simply  a  good  fellow,  enjoying  the 
usual  things,  and  might  have  been  an  original 
for  Barriers  portrait  of  the  Oxford  man  in 
100 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

Rosalind.  After  graduation  he  (Entered  the 
profession  of  law,  the  common  refuge  of 
those  who  do  not  know  what  they  want.  He 
said  of  this,  *^I  read  in  various  chambers, 
practised  almost  not  at  all,  and  disliked  my 
profession  thoroughly. ' ' 

Then  he  traveled  extensively,  visiting  many 
remote  places.  His  voyages  seem  to  have 
had  this  interesting  effect.  Instead  of  giving 
him  *^ material''  for  subsequent  novels  and 
dramas,  they  made  him  see  England  more 
sharply  and  clearly.  The  material  is  in  his 
own  mind.  Hardly  any  famous  writer  has 
traveled  so  much  and  said  so  little  about  it. 
Practically  all  his  themes  are  English;  he 
writes  of  English  town  and  country  life,  and 
almost  wholly  of  English  people.  Far  away 
from  home,  in  a  totally  different  environment, 
he  saw  England  as  Ibsen  saw  Norway  from 
sunlit  Italy.  Many  hours  must  have  been 
spent  in  meditation  about  the  distant  island, 
and  in  comparisons  of  home  with  foreign  life. 
He  became  a  citizen  of  the  world ;  wholly  Eng- 
lish in  ancestry,  boyhood  environment,  and 
education,  he  was  able  to  look  at  things-taken- 
for-granted  with  the  eyes,  let  us  say,  of  some 
highly  educated  cosmopolitan  Russian.  This 
101 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

partly  accounts  for  the  extraordinary  insu- 
larity of  his  subjects,  and  for  the  even  more 
extraordinary  impartiality  with  which  they 
are  presented.  He  really  possesses  the 
power,  prayed  for  by  Burns,  of  seeing  him- 
self as  others  see  him. 

Although  his  rise  from  obscurity  to  fame 
was  rapid,  he  spent  sixteen  years — from  the 
age  of  twenty-three  to  the  age  of  thirty-nine 
— in  more  or  less  unconscious  preparation  for 
his  career.  He  became  a  lawyer  in  1890,  used 
up  much  time  in  travel,  reflection  and  read- 
ing, and  his  first  play  appeared  in  1906.  He 
had  then,  however,  been  writing  for  eight 
years,  trying  his  hand  at  novels  and  short 
stories.  In  1904  he  produced  a  work  of  fic- 
tion that  he  called,  prophetically.  The  Island 
Pharisees.  This  would  do  well  enough  as  a 
title  for  his  complete  works,  as  the  general 
effect  of  his  writing  is  plainly  that  of  an  in- 
dictment. This  note  of  satire  and  denuncia- 
tion is  naturally  stronger  in  the  earlier  novels 
and  plays  than  in  the  later  ones ;  age  mellows 
us  all,  if  we  do  any  thinking  and  learn  any- 
thing, and  whilst  Mr.  Galsworthy  still  hates 
hypocrisy  and  self-righteousness,  he  hates 
strife  even  more.  He  has  discovered  that  the 
102 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

active  force  of  love  is  more  efficient  than  the 
bludgeon  of  scorn — a  truth  that  was  taught 
some  nineteen  centuries  ago. 

John  Galsworthy  is  an  aristocrat  in  blood 
and  in  intellect.  But  unfortunately  for  his 
peace  of  mind,  he  has  an  annoyingly  impor- 
tunate conscience.  It  is  just  the  opposite  of 
the  robust  conscience  advocated  by  Hilda 
Wangel;  it  will  not  let  him  rest.  He  is  not 
a  Socialist,  but  his  sympathy  with  the  poor  is 
so  strong  that  he  cannot  enjoy  himself. 
There  are  many  people  living  in  poverty  who 
think  it  an  outrage  that  they  should  suffer 
from  the  lack  of  necessities  when  so  many 
have  a  superfluity  of  luxuries ;  but  John  Gals- 
worthy, while  it  is  impossible  that  he  should 
share  their  condition,  actually  shares  their 
rage.  When  he  wakes  up  in  the  morning  in 
pleasant  surroundings  and  sits  down  to  an 
excellent  breakfast,  his  pleasure  in  it  is  poi- 
soned by  the  fact  that  so  many  persons  of 
equally  estimable  character  are  condemned 
to  hardship.  This  is  the  kind  of  thing  that 
ultimately  drove  Tolstoi  into  madness;  but 
Mr.  Galsworthy  will  be  saved  from  extremes 
by  his  inheritance  of  English  common  sense. 

To  be  a  penniless  communist  is  mentally 
103 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEKN  DRAMATISTS 

comfortable,  as  it  is  to  be  a  radical  without 
any  responsibility ;  to  be  a  selfish  plutocrat  is 
both  physically  and  mentally  comfortable; 
but  to  be  an  unselfish  aristocrat  with  burn- 
ing sympathy  for  the  *4ower  classes''  and 
yet  to  realise  one 's  impotence  to  change  social 
conditions,  is  not  to  have  an  ideally  happy 
state  of  mind.  When  those  two  champions. 
Theory  and  Practice,  engage  in  a  daily  duel 
on  the  stage  of  one's  brain,  the  result  is 
tragedy.  And  it  is  real  tragedy,  because  it 
is  an  intolerable  situation  from  which  there 
is  no  way  out.  It  ought  not  to  continue,  yet 
it  can  neither  cease  nor  change. 

During  the  war,  when  we  all  knew  that 
many  persons  in  Europe  were  starving  and 
babies  dying  for  the  lack  of  milk,  it  seemed 
abominable  to  many  American  women  to  con- 
sider thoughtfully  what  they  should  select 
from  the  grocer  for  the  household  dinner ;  but 
what  was  to  be  done  ?  Go  without  eating  be- 
cause others  were  forced  to  do  so  I  Eat  with 
such  remorse  as  to  ensure  indigestion?  Be- 
come hardhearted  and  eventually  callous? 

These  divagations  may  seem  absurdly  far 
from  the  consideration  of  the  plays  of  John 
Galsworthy ;  but  I  think  that  it  is  out  of  such 
104 


JOHN  GALSWOETHY 

interior  conflicts  that  the  plays  have  come 
into  being.  It  is  seldom  indeed  that  one  finds 
a  writer  whose  artistic  conscience  and  whose 
moral  conscience  are  both  so  highly  devel- 
oped. 

A  sentence  in  the  novel  Beyond  might  apply 
to  the  author  of  it.  **He  had,  in  these  last 
three  years,  become  unconsciously  inimical  to 
his  own  class  and  their  imitators,  and  more 
than  ever  friendly  to  the  poor — visiting  the 
labourers,  small  farmers,  and  small  trades- 
men, doing  them  little  turns  when  he  could, 
giving  their  children  sixpence,  and  so  forth. ' ' 
How  the  late  Samuel  Butler  would  have  de- 
spised such  an  attitude!  But  fortunately 
few  of  the  children  of  men  resemble  that 
iconoclast. 

Whatever  may  be  the  ultimate  solution  of 
social  problems  like  poverty,  prostitution, 
city  slums,  and  inequality  before  the  law, 
poets,  novelists,  and  dramatists  are  deter- 
mined that  we  shall  not  forget  them.  Our 
creative  artists  are  often  the  conscience  of 
the  public.  ^^You  may  not  be  able  to  settle 
these  questions, '^  they  say  to  us;  **but  you 
shall  not  dismiss  them  from  your  mind.  We 
shall  convict  you  of  sin,  if  we  can ;  we  shall 
105 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

rob  you  of  your  complacency ;  you  shall  share 
with  us  the  mental  torment  and  distress  from 
which  our  novels  and  dramas  are  born.'*  In 
all  of  Mr.  Galsworthy's  plays,  as  Mr.  Eaton 
said  of  Justice,  the  Audience  is  the  Villain. 
The  unpardonable  sin  is  indifference. 

His  first  play,  The  Silver  Box,  which,  like 
so  many  plays  in  dramatic  history,  is  named 
from  an  inanimate  object,  itself  a  shining 
symbol,  arrays  class  against  class  in  a  man- 
ner prophetic  of  its  author's  subsequent 
work.  Since  the  first  night  of  Sudermann's 
Die  Ehre,  VorderJiaus  and  Hinterhaus  have 
frequently  been  the  theme  of  conflict,  with 
the  former  represented  as  predatory ;  it  is  so 
here.  The  first  line  in  the  list  of  Dramatis 
PersoncB,  is  ironical — John  Barthwich,  M.P., 
a  wealth!/  Liberal.  Despite  his  liberal  views, 
he  and  his  family  are  really  predatory  in  the 
community;  for  they  do  not  hesitate  to  de- 
stroy a  weaker  family  that  gets  in  their  way. 
The  son-and-heir  from  Oxford  is  in  the  very 
first  scene  coupled  with  an  out-of-work 
scoundrel  named  Jones ;  they  are  both  drunk. 
Young  Barthwick  in  his  revels  has  stolen  a 
purse  of  money  from  a  woman,  and  Jones  in 
alcoholic  excitement,  steals  the  silver  cig- 
106 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

arette  box  from  Barthwick.  In  the  last  act 
— which  has  an  admirable  trial  scene,  the 
young  patrician  goes  free,  while  Jones  is 
condemned. 

Magistr^vte.  This  is  your  first  offence,  and  I 
am  going  to  give  you  a  light  sentence.  [Speaking 
sharply f  hut  without  expression.]  One  month  with 
hard  labour. 

[He  hends,  and  parleys  with  his  Clerk.  The 
Bald  Constable  and  another  help  Jones  from 
the  dock.] 

Jones.  [Stopping  and  twisting  round.]  Call 
this  justice?  What  about  'im?  'E  got  drunk! 
'E  took  the  purse — 'e  took  the  purse  but  [in  a 
muffled  shout]   'it's  'is  money  got  'im  off — Justice! 

[The  prisoner's  door  is  shut  on  Jones,  and  from 
the  seedy-looking  men  and  women  comes  a 
hoarse  and  whispering  groan.] 

Magistrate.  We  will  now  adjourn  for  lunch! 
[He  rises  from  his  seat.] 

[The  Court  is  in  a  stir.  Roper  gets  up  and 
speaks  to  the  reporter.  Jack,  throwing  up 
his  head,  walks  with  a  swagger  to  the  cor- 
ridor; Barthwick  follows.] 

Mrs.  Jones.  [Tu^rning  to  him  with  a  humble 
gesture.]     Oh!  Sir! — 

[Barthwick    hesitates,    then    yielding    to    his 
nerves,  he  makes  a  shame-faced  gesture  of  re- 
107 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

fusal,  and  hurries  out  of  Court.    Mrs.  Jones 
stands  looking  after  him.] 

The  curtain  falls. 

Although  this  is  its  author's  first  play,  it 
is  a  finished  masterpiece,  with  no  sign  of 
weakness,  no  touch  of  crudity.  It  sets  class 
against  class  with  no  melodrama,  no  violence, 
no  sentimentality,  no  exaggeration.  You 
will  not  find  the  hard  and  cruel  rich  man,  the 
honest  and  deserving  poor  man,  the  utterly 
base  son  of  the  house,  the  corrupt  and  vindic- 
tive Judge.  On  the  contrary.  The  rich  fa- 
ther means  well,  but,  like  many  politicians, 
lacks  intelligence,  imagination,  and  courage; 
Jones  is  after  all  a  drunken,  lazy  brute^  who 
beats  his  wife ;  the  son-and-heir  is  typical  of 
gilded  youth,  easy-going,  and  not__jcnale- 
volent,  an  amiable  zero;  the  Judge  with  the 
evidence  before  him,  is  scrupulously  fair. 
Yet  horrible  injustice  is  committed,  and  our 
blood  boils  in  futile  rage. 

In  the  end  the  one  who  suffers  most  is  mo- 
rally and  socially  the  finest  character  in  the 
play — Mrs.  Jones.  By  ^*  socially '^  I  mean  of 
course  her  value  to  society.  She  is  a  good 
woman  who  wishes  to  bring  up  her  children 
properly,  and  who  is  willing  to  work  every 
108 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

day  to  that  end ;  she  claims  no  privileges  and 
asks  no  favours.  She  and  her  helpless  chil- 
dren are  left  to  starve. 

(Personally  I  think  the  spineless  Liberal 
Member  of  Parliament  will  hope  to  assist 
her;  it  will  not  be  the  first  time  that  the 
cheque-book  tries  to  atone  for  sin.  But  can 
he  find  her?  She  and  her  children  have 
been  evicted,  and  with  the  husband  and  fa- 
ther in  prison,  they  are  on  the  street.) 

The  dramatist  is  indeed  the  Judge,  and  the 
criminal  is  Society.  The  impartiality  of  the 
playwright  is  all  the  more  remarkable,  when 
we  know  how  he  really  feels  about  it.  The 
scenes  and  the  dialogue  are  magnificent  in 
their  reserve,  characteristic  of  the  author  at 
his  best.  Every  one  who  has  seen  or  read 
anything  by  Galsworthy  feels  this  quality ;  it 
is  one  of  his  contributions  to  modern  drama. 
He  is  as  far  from  the  paradoxes  of  Shaw 
and  Wilde  as  he  is  from  the  cheapness  of  the 
typical  sentimental  writer.  Galsworthy  ^s 
plays  are  solid  and  honest,  with  no  orna- 
mentation, and  no  claptrap.  He  aims  di- 
rectly at  the  intelligence  of  the  spectators,  a 
faint  and  difficult  target. 

Mr.  Ludwig  Lewisohn,  who  has  some  ad- 
109 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

mirable  pages  on  Galsworthy  in  his  valuable 
book,  The  Modern  Drama,  need  not  have 
made  an  exception  of  The  Silver  Box.  **In 
this  play  only,  however,  is  the  wrong  wholly 
on  one  side/'  Surely  Jones  is  an  abomina- 
tion and  we  should  all  rejoice  at  his  incar- 
ceration could  his  wife  escape  injury,  and  the 
young  gentleman  suffer  equally. 

The  equipoise  and  restraint  of  our  dra- 
matist seem  to  have  been  misunderstood  by 
at  least  one  German  critic,  who  missed  that 
sentimentality  so  dear  to  the  German  heart, 
and  who  felt  that  Galsworthy  did  not  have 
the  courage  in  this  play  to  go  to  the  depths 
of  tragedy.  This  is  curious,  for  we  feel  that 
the  muffled  tones  are  all  the  more  impressive, 
just  as  the  grief  of  a  man  is  more  terrible 
than  the  grief  of  a  child,  though  the  latter 
be  accompanied  by  more  noise.  On  6  June 
1914,  The  Silver  Box — Die  Zigarettenhasten 
— ^had  its  first  German  performance  at 
Frankfort.  It  was  brilliantly  successful. 
One  critic  said  that  all  the  circumstances 
pointed  to  unrelieved  tragedy,  but  that  the 
author  took  good  care  to  arrange  that  the 
audience  should  be  spared  excessive  emotion. 
It  has  the  stamp  of  *' English  good-nature,'' 
110 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

so  that  instead  of  being  gloomily  impressive, 
it  becomes  almost  an  idyl.  *^In  its  whole 
style  it  is  through  and  through  English/' 

To  the  credit  of  German  audiences,  how- 
ever, let  it  be  said  that  Galsworthy  is  highly 
appreciated.  He  has  recently  announced 
that  all  royalties  coming  from  the  acting  or 
printing  of  his  plays  in  Germany,  shall  be 
given  to  the  relief  of  starving  German  chil- 
dren. This  is  something  more  than  **eng- 
lische  Gemiitlichkeit'';  it  is  Christianity. 

Although  Galsworthy  is  highly  respected 
in  England  and  in  America,  his  plays  are 
not  presented  nearly  so  often  as  they  de- 
serve to  be.  We  must  rely  mainly  on  stock 
and  repertory  companies  for  opportunities  to 
see  them.  When  I  was  in  London  in  the 
Spring  of  1912,  the  plays  produced  at  the 
West  End  theatres  did  not  compare  in  value 
with  the  programme  presented  by  Miss  Hor- 
niman's  Manchester  players,  who  fortunately 
happened  to  be  visiting  the  metropolis. 
They  had  an  out-of-the-way  playhouse,  and 
their  prices  were  low.  They  gave  The  Silver 
Box  in  a  manner  that  left  nothing  to  be  de- 
sired; the  art  shown  in  the  whole  presenta- 
tion, the  perfect  teamplay  of  the  company, 
111 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

and  the  intelligence  displayed  in  bringing  out 
the  value  of  every  speech,  are  things  I  shall 
remember. 

The  four  best  plays  of  Mr.  Galsworthy  are 
The  Silver  Box,  Strife,  Jiistice,  and  The 
Pigeon,  They  are  practically  without  the 
element  of  love  and  they  have  no  sex  inter- 
est. It  is  astonishing  how  successfully  he 
can  play  the  game  without  any  trumps.  His 
success  emphasises  the  fact  that  he  appeals 
to  the  mind  almost  exclusively ;  his  plays  are 
naturally  devoid  of  charm,  except  the  charm 
that  is  inherent  in  admirable  structure,  and 
the  swift  sword-play  of  intelligence.  Of 
late  years  he  has  seemed  to  be  falling  into 
the  obsession  of  sex,  more  in  his  novels,  how- 
ever, than  in  his  dramas.  It  mil  be  fatal  to 
his  genius.  He  is  at  his  best  when  his  mind 
is  clearest.  The  Man  of  Property  is  a  much 
greater  novel  than  The  Dark  Flower,  and 
there  is  no  comparison  at  all  between  The 
Silver  Box  and  The  Fugitive. 

Mr.  Galsworthy  has  all  the  thoughtfulness 
and  earnestness  of  Brieux,  and  he  is  an  in- 
comparably finer  artist.  Brieux  has  never 
written  anything  equal  to  The  Silver  Box  or 
Strife,  while  the  subtlety  and  fantasy  dis- 
112 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

played  in  The  Pigeon  are  wholly  beyond  the 
grasp  of  the  Frenchman.  The  two  men  are 
most  nearly  alike  in  Justice  and  La  Rohe 
Rouge.  But  Justice,  with  all  its  stirring 
scenes,  is  quite  inferior  to  the  three  other 
plays  (just  mentioned)  by  its  author,  and  is 
inferior  for  precisely  the  same  reason  that 
makes  Brieux  inferior  to  Galsworthy. 

Brieux  is  primarily  an  advocate,  Gals- 
worthy is  primarily  an  artist.  Many  play- 
wrights whose  works  are  devoid  of  cerebra- 
tion and  who  succeed  merely  by  **  action  '' 
and  excitement  and  suspense,  and  the  fa- 
miliar bag  of  tricks,  could  take  lessons  in 
technique  from  Mr.  Galsworthy.  Omitting 
the  content  (if  one  could)  The  Silver  Box  is 
a  magnificent  play.  Not  even  Clyde  Fitch, 
that  master  of  beginnings,  ever  captured  an 
audience  more  suddenly  or  more  completely 
than  they  are  caught  at  the  first  rise  of  the 
curtain  in  this  drama.  It  is  a  perfect  open- 
ing, and  from  the  start  every  speech  and 
every  gesture  push  the  action  along  to  the 
triumphant  conclusion.  It  is  extraordinary 
that  an  author's  first  piece  should  be  so 
weighty  in  thought  and  so  brilliant  in  action. 

Mr.   Galsworthy's  second  play,  Joy,  was 
113 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

presented  at  the  Savoy  Theatre,  London,  24 
September  1907.  It  is  a  scherzo,  and  seems 
even  slighter  than  it  is,  because  it  comes  be- 
tween two  mighty  works. 

On  9  March  1909,  at  the  Duke  of  York^s 
Theatre,  and  under  the  management  of 
Granville  Barker — the  best  producer  of  Eng- 
lish plays  in  modern  times,  to  whom  all 
lovers  of  good  drama  owe  so  much — ap- 
peared Strife.  The  London  AthencBum, 
which  had  then  a  reputation,  after  speaking 
of  the  admirable  stage  effects,  and  particu- 
larly of  the  acting  of  Norman  McKinnel  and 
Fisher  White,  said,  *^The  play,  however, 
overtops  the  acting ;  it  bears  out  the  promise 
of  The  Silver  Box,  and  adds  distinction  to 
our  stage.'' 

In  the  autumn  of  1909,  the  New  Theatre 
opened  its  doors  in  New  York.  The  first 
performance  was  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  and 
was  one  of  the  most  elaborate  failures  ever 
known.  Then  came  The  Cottage  in  the  Air, 
which  made  only  a  faint  impression.  On  17 
November  was  produced  Strife.  I  have  al- 
ways believed  that  if  the  New  Theatre  had 
opened  with  this  play,  its  history  would  have 
been  happier.  Like  all  new  enterprises,  it 
114 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

had  to  fight  for  its  life;  it  had  terrible  ob- 
stacles to  contend  wdth,  including  powerful 
antagonists  who  were  determined  in  advance 
to  destroy  it,  and  whose  joy  at  the  initial  dis- 
aster knew  no  bounds.  Everything  then 
contributed  to  fasten  upon  the  New  Theatre 
the  chains  of  Dullness;  it  was  known  as  a 
^* highbrow''  undertaking,  where  every  nor- 
mal man  in  the  audience  would  be  bored  to 
death.  Now  when  Strife  appeared,  the 
friends  of  the  company  cried  ^^At  last!  this 
is  what  we  expected!  this  is  what  we  have 
been  waiting  for!''  If  only  this  play  could 
have  been  chosen  for  the  opening  night,  hos- 
tility would  have  been  silenced,  and  a  tri- 
umphant blow  struck  for  the  good  cause. 

The  production  of  Strife  was  in  every  way 
worthy  of  the  author  and  his  drama.  The 
New  Theatre  had  the  best  stock  company 
ever  seen  in  America — a  company  fully  on  a 
par  with  the  Comedie  Frangaise.  You  will 
never  see  anywhere  in  Europe  a  more  fin- 
ished or  more  intelligent  presentation  than 
that  of  Strife.  There  is  to-day  nothing  in 
New  York  that  can  for  a  moment  bear  com- 
parison with  the  standard  of  excellence  main- 
tained at  the  New  Theatre. 
115 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

I  regret  that  the  scenes  were  changed  from 
Great  Britain  to  the  United  States.  It  was 
unnecessary,  for  labour-strikes  are  not  con- 
fined to  one  nation,  and  human  nature  is  the 
same.  This  was  the  only  alteration,  and  the 
author  made  it. 

No  one  who  witnessed  it  will  forget  the 
thrilling  power  of  the  acting.  Mr.  Louis 
Calvert  was  an  ideal  President  Anthony,  his 
cold  steely  speech  contrasting  powerfully 
with  the  lava-like  eloquence  of  Mr.  Albert 
Bruning,  who  took  the  part  of  Roberts,  the 
strike-leader;  Mr.  Ferdinand  Gottschalk  and 
Mr.  Robert  Homans  were  at  their  best.  That 
was  a  great  day  in  the  history  of  the  stage. 

The  New  York  Sun,  under  the  heading, 
**New  Theatre  has  a  *Hit,'  ^'  commented  as 
follows:  **With  the  production  of  Strife, 
first  seen  in  America  last  evening,  the  New 
Theatre  did  the  right  thing  in  the  right  way. 
It  will  be  surprising  if  this  fine  play,  coupled 
with  the  powerful  acting  of  a  company  that 
cannot  be  matched  in  this  country  for  all 
around  excellence,  does  not  give  a  new  and 
vigorous  impetus  to  the  New  Theatre's  sea- 
son, whose  beginning,  though  displaying 
much  promise,  fell  short  of  the  full  achieve- 
116 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

ment  desired  by  its  best  friends.  Strife  is 
the  work  of  John  Galsworthy,  an  English- 
man who  has  won  for  himself  an  honorable 
position  both  as  novelist  and  playwright. 
He  is  the  author  of  The  Silver  Box,  in  which 
Miss  Barrymore  appeared  here  several  years 
ago  with  credit  to  herself,  though  the  public 
did  not  care  to  see  her  in  a  part  which  re- 
quired the  disguise  of  her  good  looks.  .  .  . 
It  would  have  been  difficult  to  improve  upon 
the  acting  in  most  of  the  parts.  The  princi- 
pal honors  of  the  evening  were  fairly  divided 
by  Louis  Calvert  as  the  beaten  corporation 
president  and  Albert  Bruning  as  the  discom- 
fited firebrand.  Mr.  Calvert  played  with  a 
poise  and  reserve  and  a  dramatic  insight  that 
are  rare  indeed  upon  our  stage,  making  the 
most  incisive  effects  with  a  minimum  of  visi- 
ble effort.  Mr.  Bruning  was  a  very  whirl- 
wind of  prejudice  and  passion,  lighting  up 
his  stormy  scenes  with  the  true  fire  of  irre- 
concilable fanaticism. ' ' 

The  whole  action  takes  place  between  noon 
and  six  on  one  February  afternoon,  the 
hatreds  and  struggles  of  years,  one  might  say 
of  centuries,  coming  to  a  terrific  climax.  It 
is  pure  tragedy,  for  the  irresistible  force 
117 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

meets  the  immovable  object.  Mr.  Gals- 
worthy does  not  tell  us  about  the  strike,  he 
takes  us  there.  We  are  in  the  centre  of  the 
storm.  We  attend  a  meeting  of  the  Board 
of  Directors,  presided  over  by  the  implacable 
Anthony,  who  has  won  four  strikes  and  ex- 
pects to  win  this.  His  speeches  would  have 
delighted  an  economist  of  the  old  school. 
Everything  leading  to  reconciliation  seems  to 
him  cant.  Labour  and  capital  are  mortal 
foes,  and  must  fight  to  a  finish  every  time. 
Every  one  who  believes  in  any  form  of  com- 
promise or  mutual  forbearance  seems  to  him 
as  impotently  sentimental  as  pacifists  seem  to 
everybody  in  war  time.  This  is  war,  believes 
old  Anthony;  and  sheer  common  sense  de- 
mands no  peace  without  victory,  in  order  that 
the  sacrifices  already  made  shall  not  be  in 
vain.  Don't  talk  while  we  are  fighting — 
simply  hit  harder !  It  is  a  clear  and  logical 
position,  universally  followed  in  interna- 
tional conflicts.  Mr.  Anthony  has  all  the 
strength  that  comes  from  absolute  convic- 
tions, shaded  by  no  penumbra  of  doubt. 

The  leader  of  the  strikers  asks  nothing  bet- 
ter.    Roberts  also  believes  in  fighting  to  a 
finish.     Not  merely  this  particular  issue  is  at 
118 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

stake,  the  whole  cause  of  Humanity  demands 
that  we  continue  the  conflict.  What  matter 
if  children  starve,  and  his  own  wife  dies? 
Shall  a  man  place  children  and  his  wife,  his 
own  selfish  affairs,  above  Honour? 

And  now  the  audience  is  taken  from  the 
Directors'  meeting  to  the  kitchen  of  Rob- 
erts's cottage,  where  we  see  what  we  see  in 
every  strife,  the  suffering  of  helpless  women. 
Then  comes  the  meeting  of  the  strikers,  and 
the  fiery  address  of  the  unyielding  Roberts. 
To  him  Capital  is  as  real  as  the  Devil  to  our 
ancestors.  **If  we  can  shake  that  white- 
faced  monster  with  the  bloody  lips. ' '  In  the 
midst  of  his  eloquence,  word  is  brought  to 
him  that  his  wife  is  dead. 

Anthony  and  Roberts  both  lose  in  the  end 
— each  leader  is  outvoted  by  his  own  party. 
A  compromise  is  arranged  under  the  precise 
terms  that  were  proposed  before  the  strug- 
gle began.  Thus  all  the  sacrifices  are  in 
vain,  and  nothing  has  been  accomplished  ex- 
cept to  prove  the  futility  of  strife.  Hu- 
manity however  will  learn  little  either  from 
this  play  or  from  the  struggle  it  represents, 
for  men  (and  women  too)  have  such  an  in- 
tense love  of  war  that  nothing  can  keep  them 
119 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

out  of  it.  The  voice  of  reason  in  a  storm  of 
passion  is  like  a  whisper  in  a  north-east  gale. 

The  duel  comes  to  a  close  with  the  two 
beaten  champions  staring  dully  at  each  other 
in  a  kind  of  stupefied  respect;  each  believes 
not  only  that  his  own  heart's  desire  is 
crushed,  but  that  the  world  has  received  a 
fatal  setback.  The  world  however  has  sur- 
vived the  vain  struggles  of  passion-blinded 
men  for  many  generations,  and  will  probably 
continue  to  do  so. 

It  is  a  great  play.  It  is  built  not  merely 
on  the  contemporary  warfare  between  capital 
and  labour,  but  on  the  eternal  fighting  instinct 
in  human  nature,  an  instinct  as  firmly  im- 
planted as  hunger  and  lust.  Not  until  Rea- 
son and  Religion — which  are  very  similar 
— control  this  instinct,  will  society  be  safe, 
and  productive ;  every  man  sitting  under  his 
own  vine  and  fig-tree  in  security,  with  none 
to  make  him  afraid.  That  time  will  come; 
but  it  will  come  many  centuries  hence,  for 
it  is  the  method  of  humanity  to  try  every 
wrong  way  before  choosing  the  right  one. 
Perhaps  a  thousand  years  from  now  the 
world  will  listen  to  the  greatest  Political 
120 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

Economist  of  all  time,  the  author  of  the  Ser- 
mon on  the  Mount. 

It  is  nothing  short  of  amazing  that  Mr. 
Galsworthy  could  have  written  a  play,  wholly 
taken  up  with  the  strife  between  Labour  and 
Capital,  without  making  it  an  exposition 
rather  than  a  drama,  and  without  making  it 
propaganda.  Yet  such  is  the  fact.  It  is  a 
work  of  art,  not  a  sermon;  and  it  is  a  play 
of  action  rather  than  talk.  There  is  not  one 
dull  moment.  Mr.  Galsworthy  has  selected 
his  material  from  human  nature,  and  used  it 
like  an  artist.  Just  as  one  dramatist  will 
take  love,  another  lust,  another  robbery,  an- 
other jealousy,  another  ambition,  and  all  will 
attempt  to  represent  men  and  women  mov- 
ing in  the  labyrinth  of  error,  crime,  and  folly, 
the  clear-headed  and  superior  audience 
watching  with  pity,  or  indignation,  or 
laughter — so  Mr.  Galsworthy  puts  these  di- 
rectors and  strikers  under  the  lens  of  his 
powerful  mind,  even  as  Thoreau  put  the  ants 
under  a  glass  and  watched  them  fight  it  out. 
We  see  their  criminal  stupidity,  condemn  it, 
and  go  on  living  in  the  same  old  way.  The 
Spanish  dramatist,  Benavente,  says,  **One- 
121 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

fourth  part  of  the  morality,  goodness,  and 
sense  of  justice  which  an  audience  brings  into 
the  theatre,  would,  if  left  outside,  make  the 
world  over  into  paradise/' 

The  next  play.  Justice,  produced  for  the 
first  time  in  London,  21  February  1910,  has 
less  equality  in  the  scales  than  its  title  would 
seem  to  demand.  In  fact  we  have  here  less 
balance  and  more  bias.  The  restraint  and 
austerity  so  characteristic  of  The  Silver  Box 
and  of  Strife  are  less  in  evidence.  This  play 
is  propaganda.  The  real  criminal  on  trial  is 
civilised  society,  its  particular  offence  is  the 
prison  system,  and  it  is  found  guilty.  Soli- 
tary confinement  is  a  bad  business,  and  like 
all  deliberate  cruelty,  is  worse  than  ineffi- 
cient. It  is  pleasant  to  know  that  as  a  re- 
sult of  the  sensation  produced  in  Great 
Britain  by  this  play,  certain  much  needed 
reforms  were  actually  put  through.  Here 
Galsworthy  stands  by  the  side  of  Dickens, 
Brieux,  and  all  literary  men  who  have  used 
their  art  for  a  distinct  moral  purpose. 

But  although  the  intention  of  the  author 

is  evident,  the  play  being  conceived  in  an 

ecstasy  of  rage  against  human  oppression, 

the  restraint  of  the  artist  controls  most  of 

122 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

the  scenes.  He  does  not  give  ns  a  noble  hero 
unjustly  imprisoned;  he  does  not  give  us  a 
hero  at  all.  William  Falder,  the  victim,  is  a 
weak,  spineless  young  man,  who  is  in  love 
with  a  married  woman,  and  has  forged  a 
cheque  to  pay  their  travelling  expenses  to  a 
far  country;  curious,  isn't  it,  how  eagerly  we 
respectable  citizens  wish  he  had  succeeded  in 
the  endeavour?  Possibly  Browning  would 
have  said  that  his  real  crime  consisted  in  the 
fact  that  he  did  not  succeed  in  getting  away, 
and  that  he  allowed  himself  to  be  crushed  by 
the  terror  and  remorse  brought  on  by  soli- 
tary confinement.  A  true  hero  would  have 
rejoiced  in  his  crime,  since  he  did  it,  like 
Ibsen's  Nora,  for  love;  he  would  have  told 
the  Judge  boldly  that  he  could  do  nothing 
else;  and  the  weeks  of  solitary  confinement 
would  have  been  bright  to  him  because  he 
knew  he  was  suffering  for  the  woman  of  his 
heart.  But  alas,  Falder  is  no  hero.  Legally 
he  is  fairly  imprisoned,  and  on  his  release, 
his  broken  spirit  makes  him  more  incom- 
petent than  ever;  so  that  when  he  is  finally 
arrested  again,  he  commits  suicide,  not  be- 
cause of  any  one  misfortune,  but  because  of 
the  proverbial  last  straw.  He  could  not  stag- 
123 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

ger  along  one  inch  further  under  the  accumu- 
lating burdens  society  placed  on  his  back. 

Falder  was  quite  lacking  in  the  heroism 
that  supports  failure,  and  in  the  humour  that 
supports  failure.  He  really  had  no  resources 
in  his  own  soul.  When  Dickens  first  visited 
this  country,  he  was  taken  to  see  a  criminal 
who  had  spent  many  years  in  solitary  confine- 
ment. Dickens  looked  at  him  in  an  access  of 
horror  and  sympathy.  **My  God,  man,  do 
you  mean  to  say  you  have  been  in  solitary 
confinement  all  these  years?  How  have  you 
stood  it  r  ^  The  man  phlegmatically  replied, 
*  ^  Well,  sonny,  'taint  what  you  'd  call  a  rowdy 
life.'' 

There  is  only  one  villain  in  the  play,  and  he 
does  not  appear.  He  is  the  drunken  rufiian, 
Ruth's  husband,  who  beats  both  her  and  the 
children,  and  from  whom  under  the  English 
law  she  can  find  no  way  of  escape.  All  the 
other  people  are  a  mixture  of  good  and  evil, 
and  all  seem  to  have  good  intentions.  What 
they  lack  is  precisely  the  lack  that  enrages 
Galsworthy ;  they  lack  human  understanding, 
and  the  sympathy  bom  of  it.  They  cannot 
put  themselves  in  the  place  of  the  suffering 
man  and  woman — if  they  could,  oppression 
124 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

would  cease  and  war  be  no  more.  From  the 
point  of  view  of  orthodox  political  economy, 
Falder's  suicide  is  a  good  thing;  for  his 
problem  is  thus  eliminated.  We  need  not 
worry  about  his  case  any  further — only  the 
woman  and  her  children  now  remain  on  our 
hands.  But  from  the  point  of  view  of  Chris- 
tianity, which  is  Mr.  Galsworthy  ^s  view — 
whatever  he  calls  himself — every  human  soul 
is  precious  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man.  For 
a  matter  of  a  trifling  sum  of  money,  which  he 
who  lost  it  could  afford  to  lose,  two  souls  suf- 
fer shipwreck. 

What  shall  we  say  to  these  things?  Shrug 
our  shoulders  in  the  good  old  non  possumus 
gesture?  Or  ask  ourselves  if  we  are  really 
offending  against  the  least  of  these  ?  Falder 
is  convicted  of  forgery.  We  are  convicted  of 
murder. 

Notwithstanding  the  intrusive  propaganda, 
Justice  is  a  great  play.  As  in  Strife  he  takes 
us  into  the  heart  of  the  storm,  so  here,  we 
are  not  told  about  prisons,  we  visit  the  con- 
victs. The  way  the  terrific  climax  of  the  de- 
lirious door-beating  is  reached,  is  one  of  the 
finest  illustrations  of  Mr.  Galsworthy's  art. 
We  are  shown  into  the  general  office,  like  any 
125 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

visitor;  we  hear  the  various  views  of  the 
prison  doctor,  the  prison  chaplain,  and  so  on. 
Gradually  we  inhale  the  atmosphere ;  we  feel 
a  sense  of  imprisonment  ourselves.  Out- 
doors looks  good.  Then  come  the  interviews 
with  the  unfortunates,  and  the  steady  rise  to 
climax. 

The  only  artistic  blot  in  this  play  is  the 
last  curtain  speech.  It  is  curious  that  this 
should  ring  so  false,  for  our  dramatist  is  a 
master  of  the  difficult  art  of  conclusion.  The 
persons  are  grouped  around  the  dead  body  of 
Falder,  and  we  long  for  the  curtain  to  fall. 
Suddenly  the  old  clerk  says,  *  *  No  one  '11  touch 
him  now!  Never  again!  He's  safe  with 
gentle  Jesus!" 

This  distracted  everybody's  attention  from 
the  tragedy,  as  completely  and  as  discord- 
antly as  if  some  one  on  the  stage  had  fired  off 
a  gun.  The  audience  looked  at  each  other  in . 
consternation,  as  though  some  hideously 
awkward  thing  had  happened;  as  though 
some  beautiful  and  brilliant  comedy  had 
ended  with  a  particularly  bad  joke.  Nor  was 
this  in  the  slightest  degree  the  fault  of  the 
actor;  for  Mr.  0.  P.  Heggie  was  throughout 
the  evening  adequate  in  every  respect. 
126 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

The  first  American  performance  was  given 
by  amateurs  at  Hull-House,  Chicago,  in 
April  1911.  That  it  was  impressive  may  be 
gathered  from  a  letter  I  received  from  a  uni- 
versity man.  **I  have  just  come  back  from 
Hull-House  where  I  went  to  see  a  perform- 
ance of  Galsworthy's  Justice.  It  was  one  of 
the  most  astounding  presentations  I  have 
ever  seen.  .  .  .  The  acting  of  the  parts — by 
the  members  of  the  various  Hull-House 
Clubs — was  wonderful. '  * 

Six  years  after  the  successful  London  first 
night  passed  before  the  play  was  seen  on  the 
American  professional  stage.  Perhaps  we 
might  never  have  had  the  opportunity  had  it 
not  been  for  the  fact  that  there  was  a  news- 
paper uproar  over  the  management  of  Sing 
Sing  Prison,  and  thus  the  occasion  seemed 
timely.  Even  so,  it  required  some  courage 
to  risk  the  undertaking.  I  am  told  that  the 
play  had  been  submitted  to  seven  managers, 
who  rejected  it  in  turn,  saying,  **The  Ameri- 
can people  will  never  stand  for  that  high- 
brow stuff. ' '  Finally  that  enterprising  man, 
John  D.  Williams,  presented  it,  and  it  is 
pleasant  to  remember  that  New  York  re- 
sponded so  enthusiastically  that  the  experi- 
127 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

ment  was  as  successful  financially  as  it  was 
in  every  other  way.  It  was  also  important  as 
the  beginning  of  the  career  of  John  Barry- 
more,  who  for  the  first  time  gave  full  evi- 
dence of  his  true  powers  as  an  actor. 

The  first  American  night  was  on  2  March 
1916,  at  the  Shubert  Theatre  in  New  Haven. 
It  was  an  occasion.  The  university  and  the, 
city  turned  out  in  force;  dramatic  critics 
came  from  many  other  places,  and  Mr.  Mo- 
derwell  wrote  a  page  in  the  following  Mon- 
day's Boston  Transcript^  full  of  praise  for 
Mr.  Williams  and  of  acute  criticism  of  the 
play.  It  was  one  of  the  most  exciting  first 
nights  I  have  ever  witnessed.  As  I  inched 
along  in  the  crowded  aisle  after  the  final  cur- 
tain, a  lady  asked  me  if  I  did  not  find  this 
drama  very  depressing.  I  told  her  it  had  ex- 
actly the  contrary  effect  on  me ;  it  was  thrill- 
ing, exhilarating,  transporting.  There  is 
nothing  depressing  on  the  stage  except  stu- 
pidity.    Musical-comedy  I  find  depressing.^ 

Any  dramatist  of  the  first-class,  backed  by 
sincere  moral  indignation,  might  have  writ- 

1  (By  the  way,  the  best  description  of  Musical-Comedy 
that  I  have  ever  read  is  in  Arnold  Bennett's  novel,  The 
Roll-Call,  Chapter  IX.  It  describes  both  actors  and  audi- 
ence with  an  accuracy  that  leaves  nothing  to  be  desired.) 

128 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

ten  Justice.  Only  three  men  in  the  world 
could  have  written  The  Pigeon — Galsworthy, 
Barrie,  Shaw,  and  it  happens  to  have  been 
written  by  Galsworthy.  In  many  respects  it 
is  his  greatest  play.  It  has  the  superb  con- 
struction, continuous  movement — never  halt- 
ing between  strokes — and  economy  of  gesture 
so  characteristic  of  its  author's  genius;  in 
addition,  it  is  filled  with  the  atmosphere  of 
poetry,  mystery,  and  imagination — it  has  an 
irresistible  wistful  charm. 

It  would  be  instructive  to  compare  this 
play  with  that  sinister  masterpiece  of  Ib- 
sen's, The  Wild  Duck.  There  the  Reformer 
only  adds  to  the  tragic  misery  of  those  he 
wishes  to  help ;  it  is  the  lowest  chord  of  pes- 
simism sounded  by  a  pessimist.  Here  the 
Reformer — if  such  he  may  be  called — is,  from 
the  point  of  view  of  professors  of  political 
economy,  equally  inefficient ;  but  is  their  view 
the  only  view? 

Mr.  Ashley  Dukes,  in  his  sometimes-pene- 
trating book,  Modern  Dramatists,  in  com- 
menting on  Galsworthy,  says  *^It  should  be 
the  tritest  commonplace  to  say  that  no  play- 
wright can  make  great  drama  out  of  little 
people. ' '  Perhaps  there  are  no  little  people ; 
129 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

but  taking  the  adjective  in  its  ordinary  sense, 
many  a  dramatist  has  made  great  drama  out 
of  precisely  this  class,  the  intensity  being 
heightened  by  the  def  encelessness  of  the  char- 
acters. Clyde  Fitch  used  to  say,  **  Great 
things  do  not  happen  to  dramatists;  great 
things  happen  to  the  little  people  they  de- 
scribe." We  need,  however,  only  to  think 
of  Galsworthy's  plays  to  disprove  what  Mr. 
Dukes  thinks  ought  to  be  a  truism.  It  is 
surprising  how  much  resemblance  there  is 
between  a  pint  of  water  taken  from  a  creek 
and  a  pint  of  water  taken  from  Lake  Su- 
perior. 

The  first  night  of  The  Pigeon  took  place  at 
the  Royalty  Theatre,  London,  30  January 
1912.  This  is  a  study  of  an  interesting  tem- 
perament, and  the  effect  produced  upon  it  by 
men  and  women  who  are  not  merely  little, 
but  superfluous.  An  acute  remark  by  George 
Meredith  might  serve  as  the  gloss.  **Much 
benevolence  of  the  passive  order  may  be 
traced  to  a  disinclination  to  inflict  pain  upon 
ourselves." 

When  Andrew  D.  White  was  Minister  to 
Russia,  he  took  a  walk  on  the  streets  of  Mos- 
130 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

cow  mth  Count  Tolstoi.  A  swarm  of  beg- 
gars approached  the  novelist,  and  he  gave 
some  kopecks  to  every  one,  for  which  he  was 
taken  to  task  by  the  American  philosopher. 
Mr.  White  expressed  the  opinion  that  so  far 
from  indiscriminate  alms  doing  good,  they 
were  positively  injurious  to  the  recipients 
and  hence  to  society;  to  which  Tolstoi  re- 
plied that  he  could  not  concern  himself  with 
the  ultimate  results  of  any  action;  his  re- 
ligion commanded  him  to  give  to  him  that 
asketh,  and  he  could  not  have  peace  of  mind 
except  by  following  the  commands  of  Christ. 
Thus  Christopher  Wellwyn — is  the  name 
significant! — the  plucked  pigeon  of  this  play, 
cannot  be  happy  mth  abundant  and  unruf- 
fled plumage.  That  sense  of  well-being 
which  to  many  people  is  more  comforting 
than  religion,  is  torture  to  this  man,  so  long 
as  others  are  living  in  distress.  The  au- 
thor's inward  torment  is  reflected  in'  this 
protagonist — why  cannot  he  enjoy  his  meals 
and  his  clothes  as  others  do?  Well,  he  can- 
not— and  this  three-act  ^^fantasy'^  helps  to 
relieve  his  mind.  Wellwyn 's  last  pair  of 
trousers  are  more  galling  than  the  shirt  of 
131 


.  ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

Nessus,  so  he  gives  them  away.  A  man's 
conscience  is  certainly  in  active  eruption 
when  he  cannot  enjoy  his  own  clothes. 

This  drama  deals  with  modern  ^* charity.*' 
Of  course  there  are  organised  charities,  there 
are  municipal  arrangements  for  the  un- 
classed,  there  is  always  the  poor-house.  But 
there  is  no  blood  in  machinery,  there  is  little 
sweetness  in  officialdom,  there  is  no  bloom  in 
institutions.  (Remember  the  old  woman  in 
Our  Mutual  Friend^)  Why  can't  these  peo- 
ple go  to  the  regular  places  legally  provided 
for  them?  Don't  we  pay  taxes  to  support 
such  things?  Yes,  but  if  you  were  on  your 
deathbed,  and  you  thought  one  of  your  own 
sons  or  daughters  were  to  be  one  of  **  these 
people,"  would  your  dying  moments  be  filled 
with  peace? 

The  key  to  this  strangely  beautiful  play  is 
found  on  the  title-page,  where  the  author  has 
placed  a  quotation  from  Ferrand,  one  of  his 
vagabonds,  who  is  ironically  described  in  the 
Dramatis  Personae  as  ^*an  alien"  {who  is  my 
neighbour?)  **  Without  that.  Monsieur,  all  is 
dry  as  a  parched  skin  of  orange." 

The  fairness  of  the  author  in  stating  the 
case  is  fully  as  much  in  evidence  here  as  in 
132 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

the  preceding  plays.  The  mendicants  are 
not  *' nature's  noblemen'' — far  from  it;  they 
are  not  ** deserving  poor,"  who  are  tempo- 
rarily out  of  work  through  ill-health,  acci- 
dent, or  hard  times;  they  are  incurable.  I 
remember  hearing  a  famous  economist  say- 
ing ''There  are  no  deserving  poor." 

The  garden  of  true  Christianity  is  not  only 
full  of  useful  vegetables ;  it  glows  with  bright 
flowers.  The  sayings  of  its  Founder  are  as 
beautiful  as  his  deeds;  no  wonder  He  often 
cured  people  by  speaking  to  them. 

With  the  same  emphasis  that  caused  Mr. 
Galsworthy  to  set  the  prison  scene  in  Ju&r 
tice  on  Christmas  Day,  he  begins  The  Pigeon 
on  Christmas  Eve,  and  in  Ferrand's  speech 
he  increases  the  emphasis. 

**  Monsieur,  if  HE  himself  were  on  earth 
now,  there  would  be  a  little  heap  of  gentle- 
men writing  to  the  journals  every  day  to  call 
Him  sloppee  sentimentalist!  And  what  is 
veree  funny,  these  gentlemen  they  would  all 
be  most  strong  Christians.  But  that  will  not 
trouble  you.  Monsieur;  I  saw  well  from  the 
first  that  you  are  no  Christian.  You  have 
so  kind  a  face." 

Mr.  Galsworthy  allows  ''common  sense" 
133 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

to  speak  in  the  persons  of  the  professor,  the 
Canon,  and  the  Justice  of  the  Peace — we 
don't  learn  much.  The  fact  is  the  drama- 
tist's sympathy  embraces  all  the  wreckage  of 
society ;  he  does  not  think  in  terms  of  classes, 
he  thinks  only  in  terms  of  individuals. 
Every  human  soul  is  sacred. 

There  is  more  natural,  spontaneous  humour 
in  this  piece  than  in  anything  else  the  author 
has  written ;  it  ends  on  a  marvellous  jest,  well 
befitting  the  date  assigned  to  the  last  act.  It 
is  a  brilliant  and  charming  play,  so  soft  in  its 
outlines  as  to  disguise  the  splendid  bony 
structure  beneath. 

In  the  Spring  of  1912,  Mr.  Winthrop  Ames 
opened  his  Little  Theatre  in  New  York  with 
The  Pigeon;  it  ran  quite  through  the  season, 
and  is  in  sharp  contrast  to  the  almost  con- 
tinual bad  luck  that  followed  subsequent  se- 
lections. A  play  like  The  Pigeon  is  nearly 
as  rare  as  its  wild  prototype. 

In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Barrett  H.  Clark,  (given 
in  Mr.  Clark's  British  and  American  Drama 
of  To-day)  the  dramatist  makes  the  follow- 
ing interesting  comments  on  The  Pigeon, 
**  About  those  dates  in  The  Pigeon.  Christ- 
mas Eve  because  of  Ferrand's  remark:  *HE 
134 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

is  come,  Monsieur ! '  and  the  general  tenour  of 
Wellwyn^s  acceptance  of  every  kind  of  out- 
cast. New  Yearns  Day  because  of  Ferrand's 
remark :  *  'appy  New  Year ! '  which  marks  the 
disappearance  of  casual  charity  in  favour  of 
Institutionalism,  of  the  era  of  outcasts  in 
favour  of  the  era  of  reformers.  April  1st  be- 
cause of  the  joke  at  the  end  on  the  Humble- 
men  which  symbolises  the  fact,  or  rather  the 
essence,  of  the  play,  that,  while  Wellwyn 
(representing  sympathy  and  understanding) 
is  being  *  plucked'  all  through  the  play,  he 
comes  out  and  knows  he  does,  on  top  at  the 
end,  as  the  only  possible  helper  of  the  un- 
helpable.  I  hope  this  is  sufficiently  ob- 
scure ! ' ' 

In  comparing  the  theories  set  forth  about 
the  proper  treatment  of  the  poor  with  the 
actual  poor  individuals  represented  in  The 
Pigeon,  one  is  reminded  of  the  remark  in 
Faust: 

My  worthy  friend,  all  theories  are  grey, 
And  green  alone  Life's  golden  tree. 

Mr.  Galsworthy  wrote  The  Eldest  Son  in 
1909,  but  it  was  not  produced  until  1912. 
Here  again  class  is  set  over  against  class, 
135 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEKN  DKAMATISTS 

and  the  Head  of  the  House  finds  his  facile 
philosophy  turned  against  himself.  Nothing 
is  more  interesting  in  Galsworthy's  plays 
than  to  see  towering  smooth-sailing  rhetoric 
torpedoed  by  one  fact.  The  famous  *^  aloof- 
ness" of  the  dramatist  is  in  evidence  all 
through  this  drama,  his  reserve,  restraint, 
and. reticence;  but  it  is  inferior  to  The  Silver 
Box  and  to  The  Pigeon,  in  its  lack  of  relief, 
while  it  has  not  the  sombre  majesty  of  Strife. 
It  would,  however,  make  a  reputation  for 
almost  any  other  writer. 

In  1913  appeared  The  Fugitive,  where  the 
author  deals  with  a  favourite  theme  in  his 
novels — love  and  marriage.  This  play  is  a 
failure.  He  champions  the  woman  against 
English  hypocrisy  in  such  a  manner  that  we 
have  a  reductio  ad  absurdum.  Her  drinking 
poison  on  the  stage  is  a  relief  to  the  reader 
and  dangerously  near  the  ridiculous  to  the 
spectator.  I  have  never  seen  on  the  stage 
a  tragedy  by  a  truly  great  dramatist  which  so 
totally  failed  to  impress  the  audience. 

In  The  Mob  (1914)  we  have  the  individual 

against  the  crowd.    The  tremendous  event 

that  followed  hard  upon  its  presentation  was 

so  unforeseen  by  the  author  as  to  make  the 

136 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

piece  curiously  opportune.  I  wonder  what 
would  have  happened  if  any  one  had  at- 
tempted to  produce  it  after  the  first  of  Au- 
gust of  that  memorable  year  ?  It  shows  what 
happened  to  a  man  who  dared  to  oppose  the 
South  African  War.  He  was  mobbed  and 
killed,  and  later  generations  erected  a  statue 
to  his  memory.  The  hero  made  the  melan- 
choly error  of  attempting  to  fight  public  opin- 
ion with  reason.  One  might  as  well  fight  a 
rhinoceros  with  a  paper-cutter. 

In  the  autumn  of  1920,  The  Mob  was  pro- 
duced successfully  at  the  Neighborhood  Play- 
house, New  York. 

In  1920  Mr.  Galsworthy  published  three 
plays  in  a  single  volume,  being  the  Fourth 
Series  of  his  Dramatic  Works.  These  are 
A  Bit  0'  Love,  The  Foundations,  The  Skin 
Game.  They  do  not  singly  or  collectively 
equal  his  earlier  pieces  in  value  or  in  impor- 
tance, but  they  are  emphatically  worth  read- 
ing, and  the  last  was  successful  on  the  Lon- 
don and  New  York  stage.  In  A  Bit  0'  Love, 
we  have  the  individual  martyr  again,  his  at- 
titude being  incomprehensible  to  the  crowd. 
The  clergyman's  wife  has  left  him  because 
she  loves  some  other  man,  and  the  villagers 
137 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

cannot  understand  his  ^^calm,  dishonourable, 
vile  submission,''  because  they  do  not  know 
the  meaning  of  the  word  Love.  In  the  end, 
the  clergyman  is  saved  from  suicide  by  a 
chance,  and  in  the  moonlight  he  utters  this 
prayer:  *^God  of  the  moon  and  the  sun;  of 
joy  and  beauty,  of  loneliness  and  sorrow — 
give  me  strength  to  go  on,  till  I  love  every 
living  thing ! ' '  Mr.  Galsworthy  wants  us  all 
to  understand;  and  no  one  can  understand 
without  love.  In  this  play,  however,  both  the 
motive  and  the  philosophy  are  more  admir- 
able than  the  art. 

The  author  calls  The  Foundations,  pro- 
duced at  the  Royalty  Theatre,  London,  June 
1917,  **an  extravagant  play."  I  should  like 
to  have  seen  it,  for  I  am  certain  it  acts  better 
than  it  reads.  Although  it  deals  with  an  in- 
tensely serious  theme — social  revolution — it 
has  an  abundance  of  humour.  It  has  a  curi- 
ous similarity  in  places  to  The  Admirable 
Crichton, 

To  The  Skin  Game,  Mr.  Galsworthy  has 
added  the  parenthesis  (A  Tragi-Comedy)  and 
the  quotation,  **  Who  touches  pitch  shall  be 
defiled. ' '  As  Strife  proved  the  sad  futility  of 
fighting  between  Capital  and  Labour,  so  this 
138 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

proves  the  tragic  consequences  of  quarrelling 
between  two  families,  that  of  the  country- 
gentleman,  and  that  of  the  newly-rich  man. 
Once  more  class  is  arrayed  against  class. 
There  is  abundance  of  action  here,  including 
an  admirable  auction  scene.  Both  sides  lose, 
for  the  newly-rich  man  is  beaten,  and  the 
methods  employed  by  the  aristocrats  to  beat 
him  are  fatal  to  their  own  honour  and  peace 
of  mind. 

If  the  philosophy  of  the  author  has  not 
been  made  clear  by  his  own  plays  and  the 
comments  in  this  essay,  I  am  sorry ;  for  there 
is  only  one  thing  better  than  understanding 
his  philosophy,  and  that  is  the  adoption  of  it. 
It  is  simply  the  good  old  word  Charity  as 
used  in  the  year  1611.  Practically  all  of  his 
dramas  are  expositions  of  the  thirteenth  chap- 
ter of  PauPs  First  Letter  to  the  Corinthians. 
His  lectures  and  essays  are  more  didactically 
devoted  to  the  same  admirable  purpose.  If 
every  American  and  Briton  would  read  and 
translate  into  action  the  ideas  in  Mr.  Gals- 
worthy ^s  article,  American  and  Briton,  the 
peace  of  the  world  might  be  assured. 

With  reference  to  the  art  of  the  dramatist, 
Mr.  Galsworthy  has  written  so  clearly  that 
139 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

I  am  going  to  follow  the  example  of  Mr.  Lewi- 
sohn  and  of  Mr.  Clark,  and  quote.  *^A 
Drama  must  be  shaped  so  as  to  have  a  spire 
of  meaning.  Every  grouping  of  life  and 
character  has  its  inherent  moral;  and  the 
business  of  the  dramatist  is  so  to  pose  the 
group  as  to  bring  that  moral  poignantly  to 
the  light  of  day.  .  .  .  The  art  of  writing  true 
dramatic  dialogue  is  an  austere  art,  denying 
itself  all  license,  grudging  every  sentence  de- 
voted to  the  mere  machinery  of  the  play,  sup- 
pressing all  jokes  and  epigrams  severed  from 
character,  relying  for  fun  and  pathos  on  the 
fun  and  tears  of  life.  From  start  to  finish 
good  dialogue  is  hand-made,  like  good  lace; 
clear,  of  fine  texture,  furthering  with  each 
thread  the  harmony  and  strength  of  a  design 
to  which  all  must  be  subordinated  .  .  .  the 
question  of  naturalistic  technique  will  bear, 
indeed,  much  more  study  than  has  yet  been 
given  it.  The  aim  of  the  dramatist  employ- 
ing it  is  evidently  to  create  such  an  illusion 
of  actual  life  passing  on  the  stage  as  to  com- 
pel the  spectator  to  pass  through  an  experi- 
ence of  his  own,  to  think  and  talk  and  move 
with  the  people  he  sees  thinking,  talking  and 
moving  in  front  of  him.  ...  A  good  plot  is 
140 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

that  sure  edifice  which  rises  out  of  the  inter- 
play of  circumstances  on  temperament,  or  of 
temperament  on  circumstance,  within  the  en- 
closing atmosphere  of  an  idea.'' 

Well,  all  this  is  true,  admirably  expressed, 
and  illustrated  by  the  author's  practice.  It 
is  now  easier  to  understand,  why,  having 
written  five  or  six  great  plays,  and  being  one 
of  the  most  notable  playwrights  of  the  twen- 
tieth century,  he  has  nevertheless  created 
hardly  any  persons  that  will  always  be  re- 
membered as  individuals.  He  has  not  added 
Personalities  to  modern  drama — personali- 
ties like  Candida,  or  Peter  Pan,  or  Cyrano. 
The  reason  is  clear,  I  think;  his  persons  are 
the  embodiment  of  ideas — they  are  flesh  and 
blood,  they  are  real,  but  we  are  more  inter-^ 
ested  in  what  they  represent  than  in  their 
own  idios^aicrasies.  Or,  as  the  late  Mr. 
Calderon  said  of  Chekhov,  our  interest  in  his 
plays  is  centrifugal  rather  than  centripetal; 
our  attention  is  not  primarily  drawn  to  the 
fortunes  of  a  little  group  on  the  other  side 
of  the  footlights,  but  rather  to  Humanity. 


141 


CLYDE  FITCH 

When  I  was  a  boy  in  the  Hartford  Public 
High  School  one  of  my  classmates  was 
named  William  C.  Fitch.  Of  all  the  students 
he  was  the  most  peculiar,  the  most  eccentric. 
He  was  unlike  the  normal  boy  in  clothes,  ap- 
pearance, gait,  manners,  tastes,  language,  and 
voice.  No  other  youth  would  ever  have 
dared  to  wear  such  clothes;  they  were  in- 
deed clean,  without  spot  or  blemish,  looked 
as  if  they  were  being  worn  for  the  first  time, 
which  in  itself  fills  the  ordinary  wearer  with 
terror  as  he  enters  the  school  grounds;  but 
the  radiance  of  these  glossy  garments  almost 
hurt  the  unprotected  eye,  and  they  were  cut 
in  a  manner  that  we  should  now  call  futurist. 

People  dress  in  the  fashion,  as  everybody 
knows,  not  to  attract  attention,  but  to  avoid 
it ;  this  boy  seemed  at  once  to  court  publicity 
and  to  be  indifferent  to  it.  His  gait  was 
strange,  the  motive  power  seeming  to  dwell 
exclusively  in  the  hips;  if  you  can  imagine 
a  gay  sidewheel  excursion  steamer,  with  the 
142 


CLYDE  FITCH 

port  and  starboard  wheels  moving  in  turn  in- 
stead of  together,  you  will  obtain  a  fair  idea 
of  the  approach  of  William  C.  Fitch.     His 
face  was  impressively  pale,  looking  as  if  it 
had  never  been  exposed  to  the  sun ;  this  pal- 
lor was  accentuated  by  hair  both  black  and 
copious.     His  manners  seemed  absurdly  af- 
fected until  we  found  they  were  invariable; 
he  was  never  caught  off  his  guard.     His  lan- 
guage, judged  by  schoolboy  standards,  was 
ridiculously  mature;  instead  of  speaking  the 
universal  dialect  of  slang,  he  talked  English. 
His  voice  was  very  high,  frequently  breaking 
into  falsetto,  and  even  in  ordinary  conversa- 
tion it  sounded  like  that  of  an  hysterical 
woman  who  had  just  missed  the  train.     He 
had  not  the  faintest  interest  in  any  form  of 
outdoor  sport,  and  never  pretended  to  have 
any.     When  the  bell  rang  for  *4ong  recess" 
every  other  one  of  us  rushed  into  the  school 
yard  and  played  furiously  for  twenty  min- 
utes ;  he  remained  in  the  schoolroom,  writing 
notes  on  perfumed  paper  and  tossing  them  to 
the  girls,  some  of  whom  were  unreservedly 
interested  both  in  these  missives  and  in  their 
author.     Nor  did  he  confine  his  epistolary  en- 
deavours to  recess;  he  seemed  to  be  deep  in 
143 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

correspondence  during  most  of  the  school 
hours.  I  remember  sitting  next  to  him  in  the 
class  in  Csesar,  and  despite  the  ever  imminent 
danger  of  being  suddenly  called  upon  to  re- 
cite— which  he  did  easily  and  well — I  ob- 
served he  was  engaged  in  the  rapid  compo- 
sition of  a  letter  on  light  blue  paper;  when 
he  had  finished  it  to  his  satisfaction  he  tossed 
it  with  surprising  accuracy  to  a  maiden  who 
was  waiting  to  receive  it.  He  was  fourteen 
years  old. 

To  us  he  seemed  quite  impossible ;  but  none 
of  us  then  g-uessed  how  offensive  we  must 
have  seemed  to  him.  When  we  came  in  from 
football,  streaming  with  sweat,  stewing  in  our 
own  juice,  and  sat  down  beside  this  immacu- 
late person,  whose  very  hair  looked  clean, 
what  inner  repugnance  he  felt  we  never 
knew ;  he  never  betrayed  his  soul  to  boys. 

What  did  we  do  to  him?  It  would  be  bet- 
ter to  ask.  What  didn't  we  do  to  him?  So 
far  as  we  could  we  made  his  life  a  burden. 
Imagine  any  boy  such  as  I  have  described, 
trying  to  order  his  life  in  his  own  way  among 
ruthless  barbarians.  In  school  life — as  in- 
deed in  most  communities — conformity  is 
king.  Those  who  will  not  run  with  the  herd 
144 


CLYDE  FITCH 

and  think  with  the  herd  and  bellow  with  the 
herd  commit  the  unpardonable  sin.  But 
small  boys,  on  regarding  an  original  speci- 
men, do  not  shrug  their  shoulders  like 
Frenchmen,  and  mutter  Apres  tout,  c'est  son 
affaire;  they  insist  on  an  attempt  to  remake 
the  oddity  after  their  own  image.  I  remem- 
ber one  morning  a  boy  opened  a  window, 
while  several  others  picked  up  the  future 
dramatist  and  threw  him  through  the  aper- 
ture without  waiting  to  see  whither  he  went 
or  where  he  landed.  So  far  as  I  can  re- 
member, he  never  made  much  show  of  re- 
sistance, nor  did  he  protest  too  much ;  but  he 
never  changed  in  one  iota ;  so  that  we  finally 
gave  him  up  as  hopeless,  and  let  him  alone, 
which  he  perhaps  foresaw  we  should  ulti- 
mately have  to  do. 

We  thought  he  was  effeminate,  a  mollycod- 
dle, a  sissy ;  we  did  not  know  that  he  had  the 
courage  of  his  convictions,  and  was  thus  the 
bravest  boy  in  school.  When  he  went  to  Am- 
herst he  exhibited  the  same  singular  inde- 
pendence. I  can  remember  to  this  day  the 
flaring  bright  blue  suit  he  wore  in  Hartford ; 
he  affected  the  same  brilliant  colour  as  a 
freshman  in  college.  I  learn  this  from  the 
145 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

Memorial  Introduction  to  his  Plays.  One  of 
his  professors  said,  **When  Clyde  first  ap- 
peared upon  the  campus  he  wore  a  suit  of  a 
peculiar  blue — sufficiently  blue  and  pecuHar 
to  call  down  upon  him  the  ruthless  gibing  of 
the  upper  classmen.  For  days  he  persisted 
in  his  attire,  and  faced  the  music.  So  I  was 
not  surprised  when,  one  evening,  he  put  in  his 
appearance  at  my  house.  He  explained  the 
situation  and  asked  my  advice.  I  felt  that 
whatever  decision  he  might  make  must  come 
from  him,  and  I  told  him  so.  Then  in  a  per- 
fectly quiet  voice  he  said,  as  he  turned  to  go, 
*I  guess  I'll  stick  it  out.'  " 

Many  years  later,  when  he  came  to  New 
Haven  to  superintend  the  first  performance 
of  a  new  play,  we  walked  together  from  my 
house  to  the  theatre.  He  had  an  extraor- 
dinary suit,  only  partially  concealed  by  a 
gorgeous  overcoat,  and  on  his  head  was  the 
most  amazing  hat  ever  worn  by  a  male  crea- 
ture. Every  one  we  met  stopped  to  stare ;  so 
far  as  I  could  make  out,  he  was  quite  unaware 
of  the  sensation  he  produced. 

Once,  while  talking  with  him  in  his  house 
in  New  York,  he  went  back  of  his  own  ac- 
cord to  our  school  days.  **I  knew,  of  course, 
146 


CLYDE  FITCH 

that  everybody  regarded  me  as  a  sissy ;  but  I 
would  rather  be  misunderstood  than  lose  my 
independence.  The  only  concession  I  ever 
made  was  this:  on  stormy  days,  my  mother 
forced  me  to  wear  overshoes  to  school,  which 
I  hated,  and  I  knew  it  would  not  do  to  appear 
rubber-shod  before  the  other  boys.  So  I  al- 
ways hid  these  offensive  things  before  reach- 
ing school,  and  put  them  on  again  on  my  way 
home.  I  hated  football,  baseball ;  was  bored 
to  death  by  all  sports ;  and  I  did  not  see  why 
I  should  do  things  I  hated  to  do  merely  to 
conform  to  public  opinion.'' 

Judged  by  the  standards  most  people  use 
in  estimating  success,  he  was  right  and  all 
the  rest  of  us  were  wrong ;  for  in  later  years 
we  are  credibly  informed  that  his  annual  in- 
come was  $250,000  a  year;  and  none  of  us 
hard-headed  practical  men  ever  earned  as 
much  as  that.  So  you  see  he  finally  won  the 
respect  of  the  Philistines.  The  wife  of  An- 
drea del  Sarto  thought  her  husband  was  an 
ass,  because  he  spent  his  time  painting  pic- 
tures, instead  of  acting  like  a  man ;  but  other 
people,  she  must  have  reflected,  were  even 
greater  asses,  because  they  paid  real  money 
for  these  things. 

147 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

If  my  memory  serves  me,  that  accomplished 
actress  Miss  Elsie  de  Wolfe  once  expressed 
her  amazement  that  Clyde  Fitch  should  know- 
more  about  women  than  they  knew  about 
themselves.  She  said  that  at  a  rehearsal  her 
cue  was  to  walk  upon  the  stage  in  high  emo- 
tion ;  she  did  so ;  but  her  inner  complacency 
was  jarred  by  the  voice  of  the  playwright 
coming  out  of  the  dark  auditorium:  **That 
isn't  the  way  to  walk  in  order  to  express  your 
feelings  in  this  scene;  I'll  show  you.''  He 
did ;  he  walked  on,  and  she  saw  immediately 
that  he  was  right  and  she  was  wrong.  She 
could  not  understand  his  insight;  but  I 
could,  for  I  went  to  school  with  him.  During 
the  long  recesses  when  we  were  playing  foot- 
ball he  was  spending  those  minutes  with  the 
girls,  for  he  instinctively  knew  that  they  had 
more  to  teach  him  than  we.  That  is  where 
he  laid  the  foundation  of  his  success  as  a 
dramatist,  even  as  Richardson  learned  how 
to  write  novels  by  composing  letters  for  the 
village  maids. 

In  his  college  days  at  Amherst  he  made 

such  an  impression  in  acting  women's  roles 

in  theatricals  that  his  contemporaries  there 

have  never  forgotten  it.    As  Lydia  Languish 

148 


CLYDE  FITCH 

he  created  a  veritable  sensation ;  I  remember 
reading  about  it  in  the  public  press.  It  is 
pleasant  to  record  his  loyalty  to  his  college 
in  later  years ;  his  valuable  library  is  now  at 
Amherst,  and  he  left  money  for  the  endow- 
ment of  a  professorship.  If  one  wishes  to 
know  exactly  how  he  looked  in  maturity,  one 
has  only  to  view  the  portrait  painted  by  Wil- 
liam M.  Chase,  presented  by  his  mother  to 
the  college.    It  is  perfect. 

Some  dramatists  do  not  betray  their  clever- 
ness in  conversation ;  either  they  cannot  talk, 
or  they  save  their  best  for  the  footlights.  It 
was  not  so  with  Clyde  Fitch.  He  was  one  of 
the  most  brilliant  talkers  I  ever  knew — his 
wit  was  spontaneous  and  inexhaustible. 
Once,  after  he  gave  an  address  to  my  class  at 
Yale,  I  invited  a  dozen  undergraduates  to 
meet  him  at  dinner.  He  had  to  take  a  train  to 
Boston  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning.  After 
dinner  we  sat  around  an  open  fire,  the  stu- 
dents sitting  in  a  semicircle  on  the  floor  while 
the  dramatist  talked.  Such  talk !  The  only 
interruptions  were  occasional  questions;  for 
hours  he  inspired  and  delighted  us  all,  and 
we  were  sorry  enough  when  the  time  came  for 
him  to  leave. 

149 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

When  his  posthumous  play,  The  City,  was 
produced  in  New  Haven  shortly  before  the 
regular  first  night  in  New  York,  December 
1909,  many  of  us  were  peculiarly  stirred,  not . 
merely  by  the  sharp  climaxes  but  because,  on 
the  eve  of  sailing  to  Europe  that  fatal  year, 
he  had  come  to  New  Haven  and  talked  freely 
to  my  students  on  this  very  drama.  He  gave 
a  detailed  account  of  the  plot,  speaking  with 
extraordinary  zest ;  he  was  confident  that  the 
idea  on  which  the  story  was  built  would  im- 
press American  audiences;  he  had  already 
selected  the  cast,  and  told  us  he  would  con- 
duct rehearsals  as  soon  as  he  returned  in  the 
early  autumn.  Never  shall  I  forget  my  emo- 
tion toward  the  close  of  the  first  act,  when 
the  hero  spoke  these  broken  sentences,  among 
the  very  last  that  came  from  the  playwright 's 
pen: 

<<Why,  it  was  only  a  minute  ago  he  was 
there,  talking  with  me !  It  doesn't  seem  pos- 
sible— that  now — he's  dead — dead — gone  for 
good  out  of  this  life !  I  don 't  understand  it ! 
What  does  it  all  mean!" 

The  driving  idea  of  The  City  is,  of  course, 
that  character   can   triumph   over   environ- 
ment— ^it  is  not  New  York  that  ruins  young 
150 


CLYDE  FITCH 

men,  they  are  ruined  by  their  own  weakness. 
The  city  does  not  destroy  them ;  it  tests  them. 
*'No!  You're  all  wrong!  Don't  blame 
the  City.  It's  not  her  fault!  It's  our  own! 
What  the  City  does  is  to  bring  out  what's 
strongest  in  us.  If  at  heart  we're  good,  the 
good  in  us  will  win !  If  the  bad  is  strongest, 
God  help  us!  Don't  blame  the  City!  She 
gives  the  man  his  opportunity ;  it  is  up  to  him 
what  he  makes  of  it!  A  man  can  live  in  a 
small  town  all  his  life,  and  deceive  the  whole 
place  and  himself  into  thinking  he's  got  all 
the  virtues,  when  at  heart  he's  a  hypocrite! 
But  the  village  gives  him  no  chance  to  find  it 
out,  to  prove  it  to  his  fellows — the  small  town 
is  too  easy !  But  the  City!!!  A  man  goes  to 
the  gates  of  the  City  and  knocks ! — New  York 
or  Chicago,  Boston  or  San  Francisco,  no  mat- 
ter what  city  so  long  as  it's  big,  and  busy,  and 
selfish,  and  self-centred.  And  she  comes  to 
her  gates  and  takes  him  in,  and  she  stands 
him  in  the  middle  of  her  market  place — 
where  Wall  Street  and  Herald  Square  and 
Fifth  Avenue  and  the  Bowery  and  Harlem 
and  Forty-second  Street  all  meet,  and  there 
she  strips  him  naked  of  all  his  disguises — 
and  all  his  hypocrisies — and  she  paints  his 
151 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

ambition  on  her  fences,  and  lights  up  her 
skyscrapers  with  it! — ^what  he  wants  to  be 
and  ivhat  he  thinks  he  is! — and  then  she  says 
to  him,  *  Make  good  if  you  can,  or  to  hell  with 
you!'  And  what  is  in  him  comes  out  to 
clothe  his  nakedness,  and  to  the  City  he  can 't 
lie!    /  know,  because  I  tried!'* 

A  man  goes  to  the  gates  of  the  City  and 
knocks.  Clyde  Fitch  went  to  New  York,  a 
young  man,  with  no  money,  no  influence,  no 
powerful  friends ;  by  sheer  brains  and  pluck 
he  raised  himself  to  the  heights  of  fame.  It 
is  no  easy  thing  for  an  individual  to  conquer 
a  city ;  but  Clyde  Fitch  conquered  New  York, 
even  as  0.  Henry  conquered  it. 

His  public  career  covered  exactly  twenty 
years,  from  1889  to  1909.  When  he  began 
to  write,  American  drama  scarcely  existed; 
when  he  died,  it  was  a  reality.  He  did  more 
for  the  American  stage  than  any  other  man 
in  our  history;  when  the  chronicles  of  our 
original  plays  come  to  be  written,  he  will  fill 
a  large  space.  He  made  a  permanent  im- 
pression on  the  modern  theatre;  for  he  was 
essentially  a  man  of  the  theatre.  The  same 
independence  that  characterised  him  at 
school  and  college  was  conspicuous  after  he 
152 


CLYDE  FITCH 

became  a  public  figure.  Outside  of  a  few  fa- 
vourite actors  and  actresses,  his  most  inti- 
mate friends  did  not  belong  to  the  profes- 
sion. He  was  not  popular  with  fellow  dram- 
atists, with  professional  critics,  or  with  the 
camp  followers;  perhaps  still  less  popular 
with  reformers,  theorists,  and  *'uplifters.'^ 
He  held  himself  aloof  both  from  the  group  of 
successful  playwrights  and  from  the  undisci- 
plined army  of  bohemians.  He  would  not  at- 
tend public  dinners,  public  meetings  of  those 
interested  either  financially  or  intellectually 
in  the  drama,  and  the  only  formal  public  ad- 
dress he  ever  wrote — fortunately  preserved 
in  the  Memorial  Edition — is  one  that  with 
great  difficulty  I  persuaded  him  to  stand  and 
deliver  for  the  first  time  at  Yale.  He  told 
me  that  he  could  not  endure  the  ways  of  the 
bohemians  and  was  bored  by  the  reformers. 
He  said,  **I  am  not  a  bohemian,  not  a  sport- 
ing man,  not  a  man-about-town,  not  a 
preacher — I  am  simply  an  observer  of  life 
who  writes  plays  for  the  theatre.''  He  owed 
comparatively  little  to  others;  he  could  not 
work  in  partnership  or  in  collaboration.  He 
was  too  individual;  and,  although  his  plays 
reflect  the  turbulent  stream  of  social  life,  he 
153 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DEAMATISTS 

really  loved  solitude.  In  fact,  it  was  neces- 
sary to  him.  He  built  two  houses  in  the 
country,  and  fled  thither  whenever  it  was  pos- 
sible to  do  so.  Every  spring  he  departed 
for  the  Continent,  and  there  he  wrote  off  the 
plots  that  were  constantly  rising  to  the  sur- 
face of  his  mind.  Much  of  his  composition 
was  done  in  Venice. 

He  has  often  been  blamed  for  the  feverish 
rapidity  with  which  he  produced  plays.  He 
spoke  frankly  about  this,  saying  it  was  the 
only  way  he  could  work.  At  one  time  he  had 
four  original  plays  running  in  New  York. 
One  evening  he  gave  birth  to  twins.  He 
made  a  parental  speech  at  one  theatre,  and 
ran  across  the  street  to  receive  public  con- 
gratulations at  the  other.  He  was  always 
modest  about  himself  and  his  work,  never  as- 
sumed the  pose  of  either  a  literary  man  or  a 
prophet,  saying  that  at  any  moment  his  abil- 
ity might  forsake  him,  or  his  vogue  vanish. 
He  worked  at  high  pressure,  as  though  he 
knew  that  the  night  was  coming.  Yet  he 
wrote  each  play  in  his  own  hand  five  times — 
and  to  those  who  are  curious  about  such  mat- 
ters it  may  be  interesting  to  describe  his 
method.  He  took  large  sheets  of  paper,  and 
154 


CLYDE  FITCH 

used  five  pencils  of  different  colours,  chang- 
ing the  hue  for  each  version,  writing  over, 
under,  and  around  the  lines  of  the  original 
draft.  *  *  Then  I  can  tell  at  a  glance  which  is 
my  first,  second,  or  fifth  thought. ' ' 

He  was  constantly  surprised  and  amused 
by  the  way  in  which  his  imaginary  characters 
behaved.  He  told  me,  as  he  told  many 
others,  that  although  he  would  start  a  play 
with  a  definitely  conceived  plot  the  persons 
of  the  drama  would  persist  in  going  their 
own  gait — often  the  opposite  of  what  he  had 
planned.  ^*I  usually  am  compelled  to  let 
them  have  their  will.'' 

Clyde  Fitch  wrote  thirty-three  original 
plays,  twenty-three  dramatisations  of  other 
pieces  or  stories,  and  left  three  original  plays 
in  manuscript.  This  is  prolific,  but  nothing 
in  comparison  with  Thomas  Heywood  or 
Lope  de  Vega.  All  but  one  of  his  original 
plays  dealt  with  American  subjects,  and  gen- 
erally with  contemporary  life.  Mr.  Walter 
Prichard  Eaton  says  that  if  we  took  Fitch's 
works  and  correctly  illustrated  them,  they 
would  give  to  future  generations  a  better  idea 
of  American  life  from  1890  to  1910  than 
newspapers  or  historical  records. 
155 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

Clyde  Fitch  was  fortunate  in  gaining  suc- 
cess and  popularity  early  in  life;  when  he 
had  been  out  of  college  four  years,  he  found 
himself  famous.  Shortly  after  graduation, 
he  went  to  New  York,  supported  himself  by 
private  tutoring,  and  attempted  (in  vain)  to 
win  attention  by  the  composition  of  short 
stories;  I  have  some  of  these  and  they  are 
rarities.  Then  he  wrote  some  plays  of  no 
merit ;  but  in  the  season  of  1889-1890  he  pro- 
duced Beau  Brummelly  a  play  that  won  in- 
stant recognition,  that  had  a  long  run,  that 
was  frequently  revived,  and  that  deserved  all 
its  success. 

It  ought  to  be  said  that  he  owed  his  first 
opportunity  and  hence  his  first  success  to  the 
late  Edward  A.  Dithmar,  accomplished  dra- 
matic critic  of  the  New  York  Times.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Dithmar  took  the  young  adventurer 
into  their  home ;  Mr.  Dithmar  introduced  him 
to  Richard  Mansfield,  and  made  it  possible 
for  him  to  get  a  hearing  for  Bean  Briimmell. 

Modern  drama  began  in  Germany,  in  Eng- 
land, and  in  America  at  about  the  same  time. 
In  Germany  the  year  1889  saw  the  produc- 
tion of  Hauptmann's  Vor  Sonnenaufgang  and 
Sudermann^s  Die  Ehre;  in  England  the  year 
156 


CLYDE  FITCH 

1892  was  made  important  by  Oscar  Wilde's 
Lady  Windermere's  Fan,  and  Bernard 
Shaw's  Widowers'  Houses j  followed  the  next 
year  by  Pinero's  The  Second  Mrs.  Tan- 
queray;  and  on  the  evening  of  17  May  1890, 
with  the  first  performance  of  Beau  Brumm,ell, 
American  drama  came  into  its  own.  The  two 
hundred  and  fiftieth  representation  of  the 
piece  took  place  on  30  January  1891,  and  it 
is  not  too  much  to  say  that  every  one  of  these 
performances  delighted  the  audience.  What 
would  have  happened  if  Clyde  Fitch  and 
Eichard  Mansfield  had  not  worked  in  part- 
nership, who  can  say  ?  How  long  the  drama- 
tist would  have  waited  for  success,  who  can 
tell?  But  although  Eichard  Mansfield  gave 
the  author  the  idea  of  the  play,  was  of  con- 
stant assistance  to  him  in  the  course  of  its 
composition  and  in  rehearsals,  and  glorified  it 
by  his  magnificent  interpretation,  the  play 
stands  on  its  own  independent  merits,  and 
is  one  of  the  best  ever  written  by  an  Ameri- 
can. If  it  had  depended  on  the  actor  alone 
for  its  success,  it  would  not  be  worth  preser- 
vation in  print;  but  the  fact  is,  that  without 
any  theatre  or  acting,  read  as  a  book  in  the 
lamplit  silence  of  the  library,  it  makes  a  dis- 
157 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DKAMATISTS 

tinct  impression.  It  brought  the  old  Beau 
back  to  life  again;  it  created  a  Personality 
in  the  literature  of  the  theatre.  To  me  at 
any  rate  he  is  not  merely  the  glass  of  fash- 
ion and  the  mould  of  form,  but  a  real  man; 
so  I  thought  of  him  as  I  stood  with  uncovered 
head  by  his  grave  one  summer  evening  in 
Caen. 

In  the  autumn  of  1889,  Clyde  Fitch  pre- 
sented the  scenario  to  Richard  Mansfield,  and 
naturally  awaited  the  decision  with  uncon- 
trollable excitement.  In  a  letter  written  6 
November,  quoted  in  the  Memorial  Edition, 
he  said,  **  Negotiations  are  on  the  tapis  for 
a  play  to  be  written  for  RICHARD  MANS- 
FIELD by  WM.  CLYDE  FITCH,  and  I  am 
awaiting  a  dispatch  now  to  go  to  Philadel- 
phia to  clinch  things  with  Mansfield,  who  is 
playing  there  this  week.  It  all  may  elude  my 
grasp,  as  so  many  things  have  done,  but  if  it 
doesn't,  isn't  it,  oh,  isn't  it  an  opportunity! 
The  subject  of  the  play  is  to  be  Beau  Brum- 
mell." 

No  young  or  old  author  could  have  been 
more  fortunate  than  to  have  his  hero  inter- 
preted by  Richard  Mansfield,  the  most  intel- 
ligent, the  most  brilliant,  the  most  impressive 
158 


CLYDE  FITCH 

actor  of  his  generation;  he  was  the  incarna- 
tion of  great  characters  in  history  and  in  fic- 
tion, and  when  he  died,  he  left  a  space  that  no 
one  could  even  begin  to  fill.  I  regard  his 
death,  in  the  plenitude  of  his  powers,  as  the 
greatest  loss  suffered  by  the  modern  stage. 

Despite  the  more  than  gratifying  success 
of  this  piece,  Clyde  Fitch  had  years  of  strug- 
gle and  disappointment  ahead.  Although  he 
wrote  constantly,  it  was  not  until  the  year 
1898  that  he  hit  the  target  again,  and  not 
until  1901  that  he  gained  critical  recogni- 
tion as  a  true  American  dramatist.  In  1898 
he  made  a  reverberating  stroke  with  Nathan 
Hale  and  with  The  Moth  and  the  Flame;  but 
the  former  has  no  real  value,  and  owed  its 
popularity  mainly  to  the  skilful  acting  of 
Nat  Goodwin  and  Maxine  Elliott;  the  latter 
is  only  superficially  clever,  its  climax  at  the 
end  of  the  first  act  having  been  incomparably 
better  done  by  Henry  Becque  in  Les  Cor- 
heaux.  He  returned  to  American  history  the 
next  year  with  Barbara  Frietchie,  in  which  he 
was  fortunate  to  have  as  interpreter  Julia 
Marlowe;  and  in  1903  he  produced  Major 
Andre,  which  if  I  remember  rightly,  he  with- 
drew after  the  first  night,  as,  like  Charles 
159 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

Lamb,  he  had  no  idea  it  was  so  bad  until  he 
saw  it. 

The  first  play  of  any  real  importance  after 
Beau  Brummell  came  eleven  years  later,  The 
Climbers,  and  stands  to-day  as  one  of  its 
author's  five  masterpieces — the  others  being 
Beau  Brummell,  The  Truth,  The  Girl  with 
the  Green  Eyes,  and  The  City.  Although  in 
1901  he  was  a  successful  playwright,  and 
leading  actors  and  actresses  were  proud  to 
appear  in  his  productions,  he  had  difficulty  in 
getting  The  Climbers  accepted.  In  August 
1900,  he  wrote  from  France,  *^I  have  had  a 
disappointment.  Frohman  decides  not  to  do 
The  Climbers.  It  is  a  real  bitter  disappoint- 
ment, for  I  believe  so  much  in  the  play. ' ' 

This  is  one  of  the  comparatively  rare  oc- 
casions when  that  astute  manager  was  at 
fault,  but  he  is  not  the  only  one  who  rejected 
it.  Others  said,  **The  American  public  will 
never  stand  for  that  funeral  stuff  in  the  first 
acf  But  as  Mr.  Eaton  remarks,  they  did, 
about  five  rows  deep  after  the  last  row  of 
chairs.  It  was  finally  produced  at  the  Bijou 
Theater,  New  York,  21  January  1901,  with  a 
cast  that  contained  such  admirable  actors  as 
Mr.  Ferdinand  Gottschalk,  Miss  Amelia 
160 


CLYDE  FITCH 

Bingham,  and  Miss  Clara  Bloodgood.  The 
last-named  became  the  author's  favourite  ac- 
tress ;  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  letter  he 
wrote  to  me  when  he  received  the  news  of 
her  tragic  death.  But  the  success  of  this 
play  was  the  author 's ;  no  acting  can  spoil  it. 
I  saw  it  once,  presented  by  the  worst  stock 
company  ever  permitted  to  live ;  even  through 
their  grotesque  presentation  and  extraor- 
dinary pronunciation  of  English,  the  drama 
glowed  with  vitality. 

It  is  possible  that  Clyde  Fitch  studied 
Henry  Becque  with  some  profit.  The  scene 
in  the  first  act  of  The  Climbers,  where  the 
Man  of  Business  tells  the  silly  widow  and 
her  three  daughters  that  her  late  husband's 
supposed  wealth  consists  of  liabilities,  is  like 
the  situation  in  Les  Corheaux,  where  the  help- 
less widow  and  her  three  daughters  learn  the 
same  terrifying  information.  The  difference 
between  the  two  plays  is  even  more  illuminat- 
ing than  the  similarity.  It  is  the  difference 
between  an  American  writer,  who  simply  did 
not  dare  to  drown  his  characters  in  the  deep 
waters  of  tragedy,  and  a  French  writer  whose 
love  of  truth  was  so  uncompromising  that  he 
had  no  pity  either  on  his  characters  or  on  his 
161 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

audience.  In  justice  to  American  audiences, 
however,  it  should  be  remembered  that 
Becque's  play  is  so  terrible  that  Parisian 
audiences  could  not  endure  it;  it  has  never 
had  anything  resembling  popularity;  its  au- 
thor lived  in  the  direst  poverty;  even  his 
grave  was  neglected  until  Antoine  called 
public  attention  to  the  scandal;  and  to-day, 
although  Becque  has  had  a  powerful  influence 
on  modern  drama,  and  his  name  is  honoured 
by  all  lovers  of  what  is  truly  great  in  the  the- 
atre, his  masterpiece  is  almost  never  revived. 
Like  all  the  plays  of  Clyde  Fitch,  The 
Climbers  is  full  of  limitations  and  full  of 
faults.  It  nowhere  rises  to  the  heights  of 
thought  and  passion,  where  Ibsen,  Haupt- 
mann,  Rostand  dwell  in  the  serene  air,  con- 
templating the  clouds  below  and  the  sky 
above ;  for  as  the  saint  in  unshakable  security 
must  be  able  to  masterfully  survey  his  own 
passions,  so  the  true  artist  must  live  aloft 
where  he  can  look  down  on  his  blind  and  suf- 
fering creatures,  even  as  God  regards  the 
world  he  has  created.  So  far  as  I  can  re- 
member, no  American  has  ever  written  a 
drama  that  even  suggests  the  sublimity  of 
the  noblest  art. 

162 


CLYDE  FITCH 

And  there  are  faults  as  well  as  limitations 
in  this  New  York  play.  There  is  the  setting 
of  melodrama  in  the  snow-fall;  there  are 
speeches  dripping  with  sentimentality ;  there 
is  stock  burlesque.  But  when  the  worst  has 
been  said,  The  Climbers,  as  a  representation 
of  metropolitan  life,  is  superior  to  any  play 
that  preceded  it  in  American  history.  There 
is  an  audacity  in  the  opening  scene  that 
frightened  the  manager,  but  which  the  audi- 
ence welcomed  with  hearty  recognition,  be- 
cause they  knew  it  was  true.  The  wolfish 
way  in  which  sandwiches  are  devoured  is 
characteristic  of  all  people  at  funerals,  ex- 
cept those  very  few  who  are  broken-hearted. 
Meals  are  never  eaten  with  more  gusto  than 
at  funerals — is  it  an  instinctive  will-to-live? 
I  remember  many  years  ago,  when  I  read 
somewhere  in  the  works  of  Jonathan  Swift 
that  people  never  looked  so  happy  as  at  fu- 
nerals, I  was  shocked;  but  if,  omitting  the 
first  two  carriages,  one  will  look  at  the  faces 
in  the  long  succession  of  vehicles,  one  will 
have  to  admit  that  Swift  was  not  far  from 
the  truth. 

If  there  is  no  creative  power  of  the  first 
magnitude  displayed  in  this  comedy,  there  is 
163 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEKN  DRAMATISTS 

extraordinary  ingenuity,  extraordinary  dex- 
terity, and  a  faithful  report  of  contemporary 
manners.  If  we  do  not  go  deep  enough,  it 
is  true  to  the  life  it  undertakes  to  represent. 

Clyde  Fitch  was  not  only  a  faithful  re- 
porter of  the  aspects  of  life  around  and  about 
him ;  he  was  equally  successful  in  reconstruct- 
ing the  image  of  past  scenes.  In  Beau  Brum- 
mell,  he  had  to  rely  on  his  reading;  but  in 
Captain  Jinks  of  the  Horse  Marines,  he  pro- 
duced a  comedy  that  is  as  charming  as  an  old- 
fashioned  garden,  and  which  is  full  of  mem- 
ories and  observations  of  his  own  boyhood. 
It  was  presented  for  the  first  time,  4  Febru- 
ary 1901,  two  weeks  after  The  Climbers^  ran 
through  the  entire  season,  was  revived  the 
following  year,  and  in  1907  again  brought 
back  to  the  stage ;  it  gave  Miss  Ethel  Barry- 
more  one  of  her  first  great  opportunities, 
which  she  fully  improved.  Every  person  in 
the  audience  who  could  remember  the  sev- 
enties was  delighted  with  the  old  language, 
the  old  songs — Champagne  Charley,  Shoo 
Fly — the  obsolete  slang,  the  landing  wharf, 
the  Brevoort  House,  and  the  costumes !  Well 
do  I  remember  as  a  boy  the  vogue  of  The 
Grecian  Bend. 

164 


CLYDE  FITCH 

Spectators  at  the  first  night  of  a  Fitch 
play  were  not  only  reasonably  sure  of  hear- 
ing clever  dialogue  and  an  entertaining  story ; 
they  were  eager  for  the  rise  of  the  curtain, 
knowing  in  advance  that  some  familiar  as- 
pect of  life  would  be  faithfully  represented. 
Thus,  in  The  Stubbornness  of  Geraldine,  the 
deck  of  an  ocean  liner  is  revealed,  with  every 
typical  passenger  doing  and  saying  typical 
things;  in  another  play,  a  church  wedding; 
in  Girls,  we  have  life  in  a  New  York  flat, 
with  the  accursed  rattling  of  the  steam-radi- 
ator; the  girls  washing  their  handkerchiefs, 
and  spreading  them  to  dry  on  the  window- 
pane;  in  another  comedy,  we  have  the  busy 
floor  of  a  department-store. 

On  25  December  1902,  was  presented  for 
the  first  time  The  Girl  with  the  Green  Eyes, 
Had  its  author  been  able  to  write  a  convinc- 
ing last  act,  this  would  undoubtedly  have  been 
his  best  play.  But  he,  never  could  write  a 
good  last  act;  few  have  been  able  to  do  so. 
It  seems  to  be  the  final  test  of  the  play- 
wright's art.  Clyde  Fitch  became  a  master 
of  attach;  his  first  acts  were  brilliant  in  ex- 
position, taking  the  audience  by  storm;  but 
he  almost  invariably  weakened  toward  the 
165 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

close.  This  is  probably  the  reason  why  so 
many  professional  critics,  who  felt  in  the 
early  scenes,  that  after  all  the  author  had 
achieved  a  masterpiece,  left  the  theatre  cold, 
and  transferred  the  chill  to  their  reviews. 
But  although  as  a  rule  Clyde  Fitch  received 
less  than  his  deserts  from  the  critics,  they 
literally  saved  for  him  and  for  the  American 
stage  The  Girl  with  the  Green  Eyes.  For 
once,  and  the  only  time  in  his  career,  the 
critics  were  more  enthusiastic  than  the  audi- 
ence. The  first  night  this  play  fell  flat; 
there  was  almost  no  audience  at  all  for  the 
next  few  nights,  and  it  seemed  as  though  the 
play  must  be  withdrawn;  it  had  every  indi- 
cation of  complete  popular  disapproval.  But 
the  critics  refused  to  see  it  die.  They  kept 
up  their  praises  in  the  papers ;  they  exhorted 
the  people  of  New  York  to  go  to  see  a  really 
fine  drama ;  finally  their  prayers  were  heard, 
the  play  rose  from  the  shadow  of  death,  took 
on  vitality,  and  had  a  vigourous  life  for  the 
next  six  months. 

As  The  Climbers  opened  with  a  funeral, 
this  opens  with  a  marriage,  where  every  de- 
tail of  a  fashionable  wedding-party  is  pre- 
sented.   Yet  even  in  the  first  hour  after  the 
166 


CLYDE  FITCH 

ceremony,  we  see  the  suggestion  of  jealousy 
that  darkens  the  drama,  and  should  have 
turned  it  into  an  irredeemable  tragedy.  In- 
deed the  play  should  have  closed  at  the  end 
of  the  third  act.  Although  there  are  many 
clever  and  amusing  scenes — like  the  satire  on 
tourists  before  the  Apollo  Belvedere — the 
motive  force  consists  of  one  idea,  resembling 
in  this  respect  The  Truth  and  The  City, 
which  is  the  reason  why  these  three  are  the 
most  important  works  in  their  author's 
career.  The  text  is  found  in  the  third  act,  in 
a  line  spoken  to  Jinny  by  her  mother: 
**  Jealousy  has  no  saving  grace,  and  it  only 
destroys  what  is  always  most  precious  to 
you.'' 

Now  it  is  a  curious  thing  that  jealousy, 
which  has  no  touch  of  mirth  or  humour,  is 
almost  always  represented  on  the  modern 
stage  as  funny.  It  has  been  the  foundation 
of  many  farces;  but  although  Shakespeare 
revealed  its  tragic  possibilities,  I  know  of 
only  one  modern  play  where  it  is  honestly 
and  truthfully  presented — The  Girl  with  the 
Green  Eyes.  Clyde  Fitch  never  did  any- 
thing more  fine,  more  delicate,  than  in  dis- 
playing the  gradual  growth  of  jealousy  in 
167 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

Jinny's  mind.  The  conversations  between 
her  and  her  husband  are  so  admirable — not 
a  shade  too  light  or  too  dark — that  if  he  could 
have  continued  in  other  plays  with  such 
strong  and  such  subtle  analysis  of  character, 
he  really  would  have  become  a  great  drama- 
tist. In  all  his  work  he  is  true  to  the  sur- 
face of  life — but  here  he  deals  with  the  under- 
lying causes  of  speech  and  conduct.  He 
analyses  as  well  as  portrays. 

I  do  not  recall  anywhere  in  American  lit- 
erature a  study  of  jealousy  as  accurate  and 
as  complete  as  this,  except  in  Howells's  novel, 
A  Modern  Instance,  Yet  jealousy  accom- 
panies love  as  frequently  as  one  finds  weeds 
in  a  garden  of  flowers.  The  late  Emile 
Faguet  said  that  jealousy,  with  all  its  ugli- 
ness, was  yet  the  sole  proof  of  the  existence 
of  real  love ;  wherever  you  find  jealousy,  there 
you  have  the  indubitable  proof  that  love  ex- 
ists ;  and  if  there  is  no  jealousy,  there  is  no 
love.  The  middle  clause  of  the  preceding 
sentence  is  probably  true;  I  do  not  believe 
the  first  and  third.  Clyde  Fitch's  play  itself 
is  against  the  Frenchman ;  for  surely  the  man 
loved  his  wife. 

In  this  drama  the  conversation  itself  is 
168 


CLYDE  FITCH 

dramatic;  the  most  stirring  scenes  have  al- 
most no  ** action/* 

The  author's  favourite  among  his  produc- 
tions was  The  Truth,  produced  for  the  first 
time  in  October  1906;  it  failed.  In  the  fol- 
lowing year  it  achieved  a  distinct  success  in 
London,  was  played  in  many  Continental 
cities,  and  was  revived  at  the  Little  Theatre 
in  New  York  in  1914.  It  did  not  seem  old- 
fashioned,  because  its  interest  lies  not  in  its 
study  of  fashionable  society,  but  in  its  study 
of  human  nature.  Its  failure  in  New  York, 
while  a  disappointment,  heightened  its  mak- 
er's love  for  it,  as  mothers  sometimes  love 
crippled  children  with  more  eager  intensity. 
Then  the  recognition  it  received  in  London 
and  in  Europe  was  doubly  sweet.  The  Me- 
morial Introduction  cites  a  letter  written 
from  Berlin  in  April  1908:  **I  wish  you  .  .  . 
who  have  always  taken  me  and  my  work  seri- 
ously, and  know  what  I  put  into  it,  and  from 
what  a  standard  I  wrote,  could  have  shared 
my  joy  and  satisfaction  at  Hamburg.'' 
Again:  **The  papers  are  very  good  in  Italy 
for  The  Truth,  La  Veritd,  but  they  complain 
of  my  Puritanism.  They  say  I  have  *  ex- 
quisite wit,'  *  originality,'  and  *deep  psychol- 
169 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

ogy,'  but  I  think  they  were  a  little  disap- 
pointed there  were  no  Indians  in  it." 

This  drama,  while  not  so  powerful  as  The 
City,  nor  so  subtle  as  the  best  scenes  in  The 
Girl  with  the  Green  Eyes,  is  Clyde  Fitch's 
most  complete  work;  it  contains  incompara- 
bly the  best  last  act  he  ever  produced,  for  the 
last  act  of  Beau  Brummell  really  wrote  it- 
self. Every  character  in  it  is  a  distinct  per- 
sonality; the  conversations  between  father 
and  daughter  are  very  fine.  She  is  literally 
a  natural-born  liar;  and  she  suffers  under 
inquisition  like  a  criminal  under  the  third 
degree.    It  is  like  a  fox-hunt. 

The  enormous  success  of  the  first  night  of 
The  City,  New  York,  22  December  1909,  one 
of  the  most  thrilling  first  nights  in  the  history 
of  the  American  stage,  accentuates  one's  re- 
gret that  the  author  could  not  have  lived  to 
see  it.  It  would  have  been  to  him  a  rich  re- 
ward for  many  disappointments,  and  it  would 
have  stimulated  him  to  the  composition  of 
plays — of  which  this  is  a  forecast — that 
would  have  given  him  a  higher  place  in  dra- 
matic literature.  The  popular  demonstration 
swept  even  the  critics  off  their  feet.  This  is 
what  The  Tribune  said  the  next  morning: 
170 


CLYDE  FITCH 

**An  audience  half  wild  with  excitement 
roared  its  approval  last  night.  The  applause 
of  hands  was  drowned  in  the  tremendous 
cheering  that  swept  from  orchestra  to  bal- 
cony. It  is  long  since  such  a  demonstration 
has  taken  place  in  a  New  York  theatre.  The 
audience  exhausted  itself  with  cheering. 
And  the  cheers  were  deserved.  They  were 
earned  by  the  power  of  the  playwright  and 
by  the  power  of  the  acting.  It  seems  tame  to 
say  merely  that  the  play  is  strong,  for  in  its 
strongest  scene  it  is  tremendous.  The  play 
is  strong  as  a  raging  bull,  an  elephant  in 
passion,  a  hungry  tiger;  strong  as  man  the 
animal  is  strong,  not  with  the  strength  of  man 
in  the  balanced  exercise  of  his  faculties, 
capacities  and  powers.  .  .  .  Life!  Beyond 
question.  A  powerful  presentation  of  life 
by  dramatist  and  actors ;  a  presentation  that 
appals,  horrifies;  to  the  last  degree  *  realis- 
tic,' *  modern'  to  the  brim;  a  play  of  greed, 
hypocrisy,  blackmail,  theft,  and  murder.  .  .  . 
The  art  employed  is  remarkable,  the  effect  is 
at  moments  mighty." 

Such  language  will  seem  absurd  only  to 
those  who  were  not  present.  It  is  a  faithful 
report  of  the  effect  produced  on  the  audience. 
171 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

And  it  seems  cruel  that  Clyde  Fitch  could 
not  have  lived  to  read  such  a  criticism,  for  it 
is  exactly  what  he  had  hoped  to  receive  when 
writing  the  play.  The  man  who  had  been 
called  again  and  again  the  milliner  of  the 
American  theatre  finally  reached  a  peak 
which  his  critics  had  declared  inaccessible. 

My  own  belief  is  that  Clyde  Fitch  wrote 
this  ** unpleasant''  play  to  prove  the  length 
of  his  tether.  Perhaps  he  was  tired  of  read- 
ing that  he  was  a  mere  confectioner  who  de- 
lighted in  the  architecture  of  candy ;  he  seems 
throughout  this  play  to  say  ^^I  can  be  as 
morbid  and  as  tragic  as  you  please.''  The 
second  act  revealed  even  to  his  oldest  friends 
a  new  Clyde  Fitch.  The  intensity  of  the 
dialogue  may  be  judged  by  the  fact  that  dur- 
ing this  scene  the  heroine — so  far  as  there  is 
one — is  shot  dead  without  dropping  the  cur- 
tain. Her  body  is  carried  from  the  room, 
and  in  two  minutes  we  have  quite  forgotten 
her,  so  terrific  is  the  verbal  duel  between  hero 
and  villain.  The  contest  now  is  for  the 
hero's  soul,  which  frankly  interests  the  audi- 
ence more  than  the  life  or  death  of  any  one  in 
the  story.  To  my  mind  this  is  the  greatest 
single  triumph  ever  attained  by  our  drama- 
172 


CLYDE  FITCH 

tist — for  it  is  simply  the  exaltation  of  the 
spiritual  over  the  physical  in  the  very  whirl- 
wind of  action. 

It  is  amusing  to  remember  that  Pittsburgh, 
hearing  in  advance  that  at  one  point  in  the 
play  the  degenerate  villain  shouts  **You're  a 
God  damn  liar!''  informed  the  management 
that  unless  this  phrase  were  changed  or 
omitted,  the  production  would  be  forbidden 
in  that  town.  The  mother  of  the  dead  play- 
wright remonstrated  to  no  avail;  she  would 
have  withdra^vTi  the  piece  altogether  if  she 
had  had  her  way;  finally  it  was  given  with 
the  word  **God"  omitted.  I  have  not  heard 
that  Pittsburgh  then  or  since  objected  to 
musical  comedies. 

Every  one  of  the  three  plays — The  Girl 
with  the  Green  Eyes,  The  Truth,  The  City — 
is  founded  on  a  single  idea ;  there  is  not  only 
observation  of  life,  there  is  a  spiritual  motive 
force. 

There  is  nothing  more  superficial  than  to 
say  that  Fitch  was  superficial.  As  a  rule, 
he  chose  to  deal  with  those  aspects  of  life  that 
are  superficial;  but  they  are  a  part  of  real 
life,  and  he  dealt  with  them — not  always,  but 
often — like  a  true  artist.  He  was  constantly 
173 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DEAMATISTS 

accused  of  striving  for  theatrical  effect, 
which  is  to  a  large  extent  exactly  the  thing  to 
strive  for  in  the  theatre.  No  one  ever  hated 
him  so  much  as  those  who  had  tried  to  do 
what  he  did,  and  failed.  His  position,  in  the 
critical  consensus,  was  almost  exactly  the  po- 
sition of  Sudermann  in  Germany.  When  a 
new  play  by  that  writer  appears,  one  knows 
in  advance  exactly  what  the  critics  will  say, 
for  many  of  them  have  had  him  '* placed"  for 
years,  and  their  minds  are  made  up  before 
the  curtain  rises.  It  is  indeed  interesting  to 
observe  that  the  contemporary  criticism  of 
Sudermann  might  be  taken  as  the  stock  criti- 
cism of  Fitch.  In  the  London  Times  Liter- 
ary Supplement  in  July  1920,  I  find  the  fol- 
lowing words  written  about  Sudermann 's 
latest  play.  Die  Easchoffs,  in  which  I  will 
simply  substitute  the  word  Fitch  for  Suder- 
mann, and  New  York  for  Berlin.  **This 
latest  drama  of  Fitch  has  recently  enjoyed  a 
remarkably  successful  run  in  New  York.  Its 
reception  has  at  least  shown  that  Fitch  has 
lost  little,  if  anything,  of  his  extraordinary 
grasp  of  stage  methods  and  his  power  of 
gripping  attention  by  means  of  a  strong  plot, 
bright  if  superficial  dialogue,  and  cleverly 
174 


CLYDE  FITCH 

contrived  dramatic  situations.  Further  than 
that,  however,  the  critic  will  not  be  able  to 
go;  the  play,  in  fact,  may  be  fairly  summed 
up  by  saying  that  it  is  exactly  typical  of 
Fitch.  .  .  .  These  disadvantages,  however, 
Fitch  is  able  to  overcome  by  the  presentation 
of  a  series  of  situations  of  the  greatest  the- 
atrical effectiveness,  calculated  to  hold  the  at- 
tention of  any  audience." 

Now  this  in  itself  is  not  a  crime.  Let  it  be 
freely  granted  that  Hauptmann  is  a  greater 
man  that  Sudermann  and  that  Clyde  Fitch  is 
not  for  a  moment  to  be  compared  with  Barrie, 
or  Galsworthy  or  Shaw.  Neither  Sudermann 
nor  Fitch  are  profound  thinkers,  but  they 
are  master  playwrights  for  all  that,  and  have 
had  a  powerful  effect  in  raising  the  level  of 
dramatic  productions  in  their  own  countries. 
Sudermann 's  Die  Ehre  started  an  epoch  in 
modern  German  drama;  and  in  our  modem 
American  drama  Clyde  Fitch  still  holds  the 
largest  place,  and  is  our  greatest  single  bene- 
factor. He  was  always  serious,  if  his  plays 
were  not;  he  never  left  anything  to  chance, 
and  followed  his  calling  with  a  devotion  that 
cost  him  his  health  and  life.  After  the  suc- 
cess of  The  Climbers,  managers  wisely  left 
175 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DEAMATISTS 

details  of  production  to  him.  When  a  new 
play  was  accepted,  he  chose  the  cast  and  con- 
ducted all  rehearsals  as  an  ai3solute  dictator. 
He  told  the  actresses  what  clothes  they 
should  wear — one  of  them,  he  said  to  me, 
burst  into  tears  when  he  would  not  permit  her 
to  wear  the  gown  she  had  selected.  These 
are  small  details,  perhaps,  but  I  mention  them 
as  showing  how  completely  he  was  a  man  of 
the  theatre,  and  how  he  regarded  nothing  as 
unimportant.  When  a  new  author  writes  a 
play,  the  audience  are  unaware  of  what  has 
been  **done  to  if;  I  remember  on  the  first 
night  of  a  production  from  an  obscure  writer, 
the  author  was  called  before  the  curtain,  and 
made  this  speech:  ** Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I 
want  you  all  to  know  that  there  is  one  line 
in  this  play  I  wrote  myself.'*  All  the  works 
of  Clyde  Fitch  after  the  beginning  of  the 
twentieth  century  were  his  own — in  composi- 
tion and  in  presentation. 

What  we  in  America  must  hope  for  now  is 
a  dramatist,  who,  with  all  of  Fitch's  tech- 
nique, knowledge  of  the  stage,  cleverness  in 
dialogue,  and  devotion  to  the  theatre,  can 
give  us  truly  great  plays ;  no  such  person  has 
yet  appeared. 

176 


CLYDE  FITCH 

No  play  of  universal  importance  has  ever 
been  written  in  the  Western  Hemisphere. 
Yet  we  have  some  original  twentieth  century 
dramas  that  stand  out  above  the  average  pro- 
duction. Our  foremost  living  dramatist  is 
Augustus  Thomas;  and  his  best  piece,  The 
Witching  Hour,  is  excellent  both  in  action 
and  dialogue.  I  know,  because  I  have  heard 
it  on  the  stage,  and  seen  it  in  the  motion  pic- 
tures. The  late  William  Vaughn  Moody  con- 
tributed to  literature  and  the  theatre  in  The 
Great  Divide,  Eugene  Walter  has  never 
realised  his  possibilities;  but  The  Easiest 
Way  was  certainly  not  lacking  either  in 
force  or  in  truth.  Louis  K.  Anspacher^s 
The  Unchastened  Woman  is  a  brilliant  and 
original  comedy,  and  will  repay  study  in  the 
printed  text.  Eugene  O^NeilPs  Beyond  the 
Horizon  deservedly  won  a  prize,  but  it  has 
more  promise  than  excellence.  Jesse  Lynch 
Williams  understands  the  art  of  dialogue, 
but  has  not  yet  produced  a  wholly  convincing 
play.  The  best  one-act  piece  that  I  know  of 
by  an  American  writer  is  the  tragedy, 
Trifles,  by  Susan  Glaspell.  This  indicates  a 
high-power  pen.  It  has  a  Eussian  intensity. 
Our  most  successful  living  novelist,  Booth 
177 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

Tarkington,  has  lately  devoted  himself  in  all 
seriousness  to  the  drama,  and  I  have  high 
hopes.  His  earlier  pieces,  written  in  collab- 
oration, were  only  sugar-plums;  but  Clarence 
is  an  exceedingly  clever  comedy,  and  Polde- 
kin,  although  it  received  a  chorus  of  damna- 
tion from  the  New  York  papers,  is  a  living 
proof  that  the  limitations  imposed  on  Mr. 
Tarkington 's  art  by  the  critics,  must  be  re- 
moved. His  next  play  may  surprise  his 
friends  and  disturb  his  foes. 


178 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

In  the  late  afternoon  of  a  typical  winter 
day  in  Paris,  14  December  1903,  and  in  re- 
sponse to  a  cordial  invitation  giving  the  time 
and  the  place,  I  walked  through  the  cold 
drizzle  up  on  the  heights  not  so  far  from  the 
Trocadero,  entered  the  long  crooked  rue 
Raynouard,  came  to  an  opaque  portal  in  an 
opaque  wall,  made  out  in  the  dimness  the 
number  67,  rang  a  bell,  and  awaited  the  re- 
sult of  the  tintinnabulation — which  went 
echoing  off  in  the  remote  interior — with  an 
accelerated  heart.  Soon  I  followed  a  maid- 
servant through  long  passages  and  rever- 
berating corridors — just  as  if  we  were  char- 
acters in  one  of  the  plays — until  after  an 
incredibly  long  and  winding  pilgrimage,  the 
maid  stopped  in  front  of  a  door  and  knocked. 
A  clear  voice  called  ^'Entrezf*  and  I  did. 

A  cheerful  contrast  it  was  to  all  I  had  seen 

outside  of  it.     It  was  a  rather  small  square 

room ;  a  sea-coal  fire  was  blazing  merrily  in 

the  open  grate;  the  walls  were  lined  with 

179 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEKN  DRAMATISTS 

books ;  a  table  was  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
a  comfortable  chair  placed  at  it,  while  di- 
rectly behind  the  chair,  so  that  the  writer 
could  reach  these  particular  books  without 
getting  up,  was  a  set  of  the  Mermaid  Series 
of  the  Elizabethan  Dramatists,  besides  many 
other  volumes  in  the  English  language.  The 
chair  at  the  desk  faced  the  door,  and  as  I 
entered,  I  saw  the  man  in  the  chair  busily 
writing  in  the  old-fashioned  way,  with  pen 
and  ink.  He  looked  up  mth  a  hospitable  ex- 
pression, immediately  rose,  shook  hands 
warmly,  and  offered  me  a  cigarette.  I  lit  it, 
and  was  so  confused  that  I  put  the  wrong  end 
in  my  mouth.  This  seemed  to  amuse  M. 
Maeterlinck  extremely;  in  fact,  he  roared 
with  laughter.  I  laughed  to  keep  him  com- 
pany, and  at  once  we  seemed  to  be  intimate. 
The  famous  mystic  was  in  appearance  the 
opposite  of  what  many  must  have  imagined. 
Although  his  works  are  full  of  spiritual  sig- 
nificance, full  of  symbolism  and  the  stuff  that 
dreams  are  made  of,  the  best  adjective  to 
describe  the  man  is  hearty.  It  was  a  hand- 
some, healthy  face,  manly  and  cheerful  in  ex- 
pression ;  he  looked  as  rugged  as  an  English 
squire,  and  as  though  he  had  been  brought  up 
180 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

on  beef  steak  and  Bass's  ale.  He  had  posi- 
tively no  mannerisms,  no  affectations;  he 
seemed  composed  of  cordiality  and  good 
sense. 

I  knew  that  for  years  he  had  read  English 
with  the  same  ease  that  he  read  French;  I 
therefore  expected  the  conversation  would  be 
in  my  own  tongue.  But  I  had  no  chance  to 
discover  how  good  his  spoken  English  might 
be,  for  he  insisted — perhaps  out  of  politeness 
— that  we  should  both  speak  French.  I  was 
consoled  by  the  fact  that  the  distance  between 
his  oral  French  and  mine  could  not  possibly 
be  greater  than  that  between  his  written 
French  and  my  written  English;  and  for  an 
hour  we  talked  freely,  **une  heure  amicale,'' 
he  was  kind  enough  to  call  it  afterwards.  He 
spoke  of  his  immense  admiration  for  English 
literature,  for  English  poets,  English  drama- 
tists, and,  among  American  authors,  for  Em- 
erson. He  confirmed  all  that  he  had  written 
me  about  his  love  for  Browning.  I  reminded 
him  of  his  early  translation  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan Ford's  tragedy,  'Tis  Pity,  and  he 
smiled,  saying  it  was  a  work  of  his  youth.  I 
told  him  of  my  difficulties  in  finding  a  copy  in 
Paris,  and  of  my  pleasure  in  finally  adding  it 
181 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

to  my  collection.  We  spoke  a  good  deal 
about  his  play  Monna  Vanna,  and  when  I  said 
I  should  hear  it  next  month  in  Munich,  he 
looked  distressed,  saying  that  the  Munich 
performance  was  bad — later  I  thought  it  was 
good.  It  certainly  gives  one  a  notion  of  the 
standards  that  prevail  at  Paris  when  I  say 
that  of  all  the  months  I  have  spent  in  Paris  in 
the  twentieth  century,  never  at  any  time  dur- 
ing my  visits  to  that  city  has  there  been  a 
single  one  of  Maeterlinck's  plays  on  the  stage. 
I  can  judge  of  the  acting  qualities  of  his 
drama  only  through  English  and  German. 

As  I  rose  to  go,  he  gave  me  an  autograph 
copy  of  his  translation  of  the  work  of  a  Flem- 
ish mystic.  I  went  straight  from  his  house 
to  the  Comedie  PrauQaise,  where  I  heard  a 
performance  of  Victor  Hugo's  Hernani.  It 
was  of  course  admirably  produced  and  inter- 
preted, but  its  declamation  sounded  so  un- 
real and  its  sentiments  so  melodramatic  that 
many  in  the  audience  laughed  outright. 

When  Maeterlinck  visited  America  for  the 
first  time  in  1919,  I  found  him  the  same  man 
— frank,  hearty,  modest  and  sincere.  The 
brilliant  successes  of  plays  written  since 
1903  had  not  changed  his  personal  manner. 
182 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

It  is  a  pity  that  his  unfortunate  lecture  tour 
produced  such  a  false  impression  of  him  in 
our  country.  He  used  a  language  on  that 
opening  night  that  had  never  been  heard 
from  gods  or  men.  I  told  him  it  was  really 
a  great  compliment  to  us.  All  his  works 
written  in  French  had  been  original ;  no  one 
could  foretell  the  characteristics  of  his  next 
book.  And  so,  when  he  came  to  America,  he 
not  only  wrote  an  original  lecture  but  in- 
vented an  original  language,  that  was  used 
just  once — like  a  goblet  for  the  king's  health 
— and  will  never  be  used  again. 

My  acquaintance  with  the  famous  Belgian 
in  1903  began  in  a  way  that  is  of  some  lit- 
erary interest.  As  every  one  knows,  Monna 
Vanna,  published  in  1902,  was  a  turning 
point  in  Maeterlinck's  career.  Up  to  that 
date,  and  for  a  little  over  ten  years,  he  had 
written  *  literary"  dramas,  that  appealed 
only  to  readers;  he  was  scarcely  thought  of 
as  a  practical  playwright.  But  Monna 
Vanna  was  a  success — as  it  deserved  to  be — 
on  every  stage  in  Europe  except  in  England, 
where  it  was  forbidden  by  the  censor;  the 
world  was  talking  about  it.  One  day,  in  the 
quiet  of  my  library,  I  began  to  read  it,  and 
183 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

when  I  was  part  way  through  the  second  act, 
I  leaped  from  my  chair — the  thing  seemed  in- 
credible, but  here  was  a  scene  that  must  have 
been  taken  straight  from  Browning's  drama 
Luria.  I  say  it  seemed  incredible  that  Mae- 
terlinck could  have  conveyed  anything  from 
this  almost-forgotten  work  of  Browning,  and 
yet  it  was  even  more  incredible  that  such  a 
psychological  situation  should  have  happened 
twice  by  accident.  The  fact  that  both  Monna 
Vanna  and  Luria  represented  hostilities  be- 
tween Florence  and  Pisa  in  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, the  fact  that  the  general  of  the  Floren- 
tine forces  was  an  alien — that  was  not  so  re- 
markable and  might  have  been  fortuitous. 
But  that  in  both  plays  the  Commissary  of  the 
Republic  of  Florence,  in  the  camp  with  the 
Commander-in-chief,  should  be  steadily  be- 
traying him  in  letters  home;  and  that  when 
the  general,  in  a  man-to-man  interview,  spoke 
of  the  discovery  of  this  abominable  treach- 
ery, the  culprit,  instead  of  being  ashamed, 
embarrassed  or  apologetic,  boldly  defended 
his  course,  saying  that  Florence  was  greater 
than  any  man  who  worked  for  her,  and  that 
if  the  general  punished  the  Commissary  for 
this  so-called  treachery,  he  would  simply  be 
184 


MAURICE  MAETEELINCK     • 

proving  the  correctness  of  the  Commissary's 
attitude — how  could  this  be  an  accident! 
Such  original  pyschology  is  purely  in  the 
manner  of  Browning,  and  to  see  it  repeated 
literally  in  Monna  Vanna  was  amazing.  Of 
course  it  was  a  side-issue  in  the  French  play ; 
it  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  main  plot  or  the 
main  interest,  and  the  drama  could  have 
stood  perfectly  well  without  it.  However, 
there  it  was ! 

I  waited  for  some  one  to  speak.  I  read 
many  criticisms  of  Monna  Vanna;  no  one 
mentioned  this  similarity,  either  in  England 
or  in  America.  I  therefore  published  an 
article  in  the  New  York  Independent,  calling 
attention  to  the  parallel,  but  of  course  not 
suggesting  plagiarism.  Immediately  I  re- 
ceived condemnation  and  ridicule.  If  only 
these  hostile  critics  had  taken  the  trouble 
to  read  Luria;  but  Luria  was  a  play  that  had 
been  published  in  1846,  had  never  attracted 
attention — had  never  been  played  in  any 
country  or  at  any  time  except  just  once  at 
the  Asylum  Hill  Congregational  Church  in 
Hartford,  Connecticut — ^had  in  short  been 
forgotten  even  by  students  of  English  liter- 
ature, even  by  students  of  Browning.  This 
185 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

latter  fact  is  clear  from  the  position  taken  by 
James  Huneker,  who,  in  Steeplejack^  informs 
us  that  he  reads  Bro^Aoiing  chronically.  In 
1903  Mr.  Huneker  was  dramatic  critic  for  the 
New  York  Sun;  he  ridiculed  my  pretended 
discovery.  Later  in  the  year,  however,  he 
went  to  Paris,  called  on  Maeterlinck,  and  the 
Belgian  told  him  I  was  right  and  he  was 
wrong.  He  then  wrote  me  a  handsome  letter, 
stating  exactly  what  Maeterlinck  had  said. 

Wishing  only  to  arrive  at  the  truth,  for 
Browning  and  Maeterlinck  are  both  of  such 
importance  in  literature  that  an  established 
connexion  would  be  interesting,  I  sent  the 
Independent  article  to  the  author  of  Monna 
Vanna,  and  received  an  immediate  reply. 

^*22  March,  1903. 
'*!  have  just  read  with  interest,  in  The  In- 
dependent, the  article  that  you  have  devoted 
to  Monna  Vanna,  You  are  absolutely  right 
{vous  avez  parfaitement  raison) :  there  is, 
between  an  episodiacal  scene  in  my  second  act 
(where  Prinzivalle  unmasks  Trivulzio)  and 
one  of  the  great  scenes  in  Luria  a  similarity 
that  I  am  surprised  has  not  been  noticed  be- 
fore. I  am  all  the  more  surprised,  because, 
186 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

far  from  concealing  this  similarity,  I  tried 
myself  to  emphasise  it,  in  taking  exactly  the 
same  hostile  cities,  the  same  epoch,  and  al- 
most the  same  characters:  when  it  would 
have  been  easy  to  transpose  the  whole  thing 
and  make  the  borrowing  unrecognisable,  had 
I  wished  to  deceive. 

**I  am  an  eager  reader  and  an  ardent  ad- 
mirer of  Browning,  who  is  in  my  opinion  one 
of  the  greatest  poets  that  England  has  ever 
had.  This  is  why  I  regard  him  as  belonging 
to  classic  and  universal  literature,  which 
everybody  is  supposed  to  know.  It  is  then 
natural  and  legitimate  to  borrow  a  situation 
or  rather  a  fragment  of  a  situation,  just  as 
one  borrows  daily  from  ^schylus,  Sophocles, 
and  Shakespeare.  Such  borrowings,  when 
they  are  concerned  with  poets  of  this  rank, 
and  are  so  to  speak,  coram  publico,  are  really 
a  kind  of  public  homage. 

**Then,  apart  from  this  episode,  which 
fills  a  corner  so  accidental  and  so  subordi- 
nate that  one  might  entirely  suppress  it  with- 
out in  the  least  injuring  my  play,  my  piece 
separates  itself  entirely  from  the  tragedy  of 
Bro^vning  and  has  nothing  more  in  common 
with  it.  This  scene  rises  in  my  drama  like 
187 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

an  isolated  column  that  my  pious  homage  has 
erected  to  the  memory  of  the  poet  who  cre- 
ated in  my  imagination  the  atmosphere  where 
Monna  Vanna  lives,  to  the  memory  of  a  Mas- 
ter admired  by  all/' 

This  letter  was  not  only  cheering  to  me, 
but  I  think  it  is  important  to  students  of  lit- 
erature; and  let  me  repeat  that  Maeterlinck 
is  accurate  in  saying  that  the  main  plot  of 
Monna  Vanna  owes  nothing  to  Luria.  I 
wrote,  asking  permission  to  print  the  letter, 
and  received  the  following  reply. 

^^2  May,  1903. 
*^I  am  very  grateful  for  your  cordial  and 
very  correct  attitude  in  this  little  literary 
controversy  and  I  thank  you  heartily.  I  do 
not  recall  the  precise  words  of  my  former  let- 
ter, but  as  I  wrote  simply  a  fact  that  I 
wanted  to  express,  I  see  no  reason  why  it 
should  not  be  published  exactly  as  I  wrote  it. 
Only  I  think  I  remember  saying  that  the 
scene  between  Prinzivalle  and  Trivulzio  had 
been  borrowed  from  Browning.  It  would  be 
more  exact  to  say  that  it  had  been  inspired 
by  the  reading  of  Luria.  So,  as  another  ex- 
188 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

ample,  has  my  new  piece,  Joyselle,  been  in- 
spired by  The  Tempest  of  Shakespeare.  If 
it  seems  natural  to  seek  a  point  of  departure 
and  a  motive  of  inspiration  in  Shakespeare, 
why  should  one  be  astonished  if  it  is  sought 
in  Browning r' 

In  my  judgment,  Maeterlinck  does  not  ex- 
aggerate the  greatness  of  Browning;  but  it  is 
certainly  true  that  Browning  is  not  univers- 
ally read  in  France,  although  Professor  Ber- 
ger  has  written  a  volume  devoted  to  him,  and 
M.  Jusserand,  the  French  Ambassador  to  the 
United  States,  who  knew  Browning  person- 
ally, long  ago  called  attention  to  the  English- 
man's  genius.  I  once  spoke  to  Emile  Faguet 
about  Maeterlinck's  enthusiasm  for  Brown- 
ing, and  asked  him  if  Browning  were  a  house- 
hold word  in  France.  He  smiled  and  said, 
^^Pas  encore,^' 

It  is  interesting  to  record  the  relationship 
between  Luria  and  Monna  Vanna,  but  much 
more  interesting  to  know  of  M.  Maeterlinck's 
admiration  for  Browning.  For  the  concep- 
tion of  Love  which  is  primary  in  Browning's 
work,  is  prominent  not  only  in  Monna  Vanna 
and  Joyzelle,  but  certainly  in  such  a  play  as 
189 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

Soeur  Beatrice,  and  in  fact  is  essential  to  an 
understanding  of  Maeterlinck's  ideas. 

Maeterlinck  is  one  of  the  great  dramatists 
of  modern  times,  and  is  perhaps,  if  we  con- 
sider both  the  excellence  of  his  work  and  its 
universal  influence,  the  foremost  living  writer 
in  the  world.  Although  practically  all  of  his 
work  is  in  prose,  he  is  commonly  spoken  of 
as  a  poet — an  unconscious  recognition  of  the 
spirit  and  quality  of  his  writings — and  he 
used  to  be  called  the  Belgian  Shakespeare. 
He  has  modestly  insisted  that  the  late  Emile 
Verhaeren,  the  Belgian  poet  and  dramatist,  is 
a  more  important  figure  in  literature  than 
himself ;  but  he  can  get  no  one  to  agree  with 
him.  During  the  war  there  was  talk  of  elect- 
ing Maeterlinck  to  the  French  Academy,  de- 
spite his  foreign  birth  and  citizenship;  in  a 
letter  to  Le  Journal,  he  suggested  that  they 
choose  instead  **my  old  friend  Emile  Ver- 
haeren, first,  because  he  is  my  elder ;  second, 
because  he  is  a  very  great  poet,  while  I  am 
only  an  industrious  and  conscientious  prose 
writer.  Any  one  with  patience  could  write 
what  I  have  written;  nobody  could  do  what 
he  has  done.  Only  a  poet  is  qualified  to 
190 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

represent  worthily  a  nation's  greatness  and 
heroism/' 

Patience  is  an  admirable  quality;  but  un- 
common as  it  is,  it  is  more  common  than 
genius.  Nor  is  it  a  particular  qualificaftion 
for  producing  literature.  Bro^vning  and 
Byron  were  not  conspicuous  for  possessing 
patience. 

Good  news  was  brought  to  Ghent  on  29 
August  1862,  for  on  that  day  and  in  that 
place  Maurice  Maeterlinck  was  born.  He 
came  of  a  very  old  Flemish  family — he  had 
the  mediaeval  mystics  in  his  blood.  .  .  .  He 
took  the  regular  course  at  the  Jesuit  College 
of  Sainte-Barbe,  in  Ghent.  These  early  re- 
ligious impressions  were  lasting,  for  though 
it  cannot  be  said  that  Maeterlinck  is  either  an 
orthodox  Catholic  or  Protestant,  he  is  a  life- 
long student  of  religion,  and  not  from  an 
aloof  standpoint.  He  is  a  religious  man,  and 
ethical  ideas  have  formed  the  foundation  of 
much  of  his  work.  After  graduating  from 
this  college  in  1885,  he  took  up  the  study  of 
law  at  the  University  of  Ghent.  But  he 
cared  much  for  literature  and  little  for  law. 

M.  Tourquet-Milnes  informs  us  that  the 
191 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

first  thing  written  by  Maeterlinck  that  got 
into  print  was  The  Massacre  of  the  Innocents. 
The  scene  is  in  Nazareth  and  we  are  told 
that  it  is  painfully  detailed  and  realistic.  It 
is  interesting  to  see  that  in  common  with 
all  great  writers,  his  main  inspiration  is  the 
Bible ;  its  pages  were  to  have  a  powerful  in- 
fluence on  his  mature  prose  style,  and  he  was 
later  to  write  a  play  on  Mary  Magdalene. 

After  this  prose  sketch,  came  what  is  gen- 
erally called  Maeterlinck's  first  publication 
(really  his  second),  a  volume  of  poems  named 
Hot-Houses  (Serres  Chaudes).  This  thin 
book  is  full  of  vaguely  melancholy  verse; 
quite  different  in  appearance  are  these 
forced  flowers  from  those  of  The  Double 
Garden. 

Serres  Chaudes  appeared  in  1889;  and 
three  years  before,  in  1886,  Maeterlinck  real- 
ised a  dream  of  his  boyhood — he  saw  Paris 
for  the  first  time.  I  am  quite  sure  that  no 
American  and  no  Frenchman  can  share  or 
even  adequately  imagine  the  sensations  of  an 
ambitious  Belgian  when  he  first  comes  to 
Paris.  Maeterlinck  was  twenty-four;  so  far 
as  polite  intercourse  and  writing  had  been 
concerned,  French  was  his  mother-tongue; 
192 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

yet  he  had  never  seen  Paris  nor  heard  Pari- 
sians talking  together.  His  attitude  toward 
the  centre  of  French  art  and  literature  must 
have  been  entirely  different  from  that  of  a 
southern  Frenchman  like  Alphonse  Daudet  or 
from  an  Englishman  who  had  learned  the  lan- 
guage in  his  youth. 

English  literature  is  diffused  all  over  the 
world ;  it  can  never  be  centralised  again  as  it 
was  at  London  in  the  days  of  Samuel  John- 
son. But  French  literature  is  still  central- 
ised at  Paris ;  and  as  young  Maeterlinck  saw 
the  world-famous  poets  and  novelists  walking 
the  streets,  and  lingered  in  the  Bohemian 
cafes  listening  to  manuscript  verse  from 
youthful  enthusiasts,  we  can  hardly  guess  his 
excitement  and  the  spur  to  his  literary  ambi- 
tion. **Very  often,'*  he  once  said  to  the 
journalist,  Jules  Huret,  ^*I  saw  Villiers  de 
Plsle  Adam.  It  was  at  the  Brasserie  Pous- 
set  in  Montmartre.  There  were  others  too: 
Mendes  came  in  occasionally.'' 

After  some  months  in  the  French  capital, 
he  returned  to  Belgium  and  lived  in  solitude 
and  calm — that  expectant  calm  that  hovers 
over  the  landscape  of  the  Low  Countries — 
that  Silence  which  was  to  be  characteristic 
193 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

of  his  early  dramas.  This  period  of  pro- 
longed and  uninterrupted  meditation,  study, 
reflection,  and  composition  was  important  to 
his  future  development. 

His  reputation  bloomed  in  the  same  year 
that  saw  the  publication  of  Serres  Chaudes, 
though  not  by  that  work;  for  in  1889 — the 
year  of  the  first  play  by  Hauptmann  and  the 
first  by  Sudermann — Maeterlinck  produced 
La  Princesse  Maleine,  a  tragedy  in  five  acts. 
Octave  Mirbeau,  who  was  later  to  become  a 
famous  dramatist,  and  who  was  then  a  journ- 
alist, greeted  the  unknown  Belgian  with  this 
rhapsody,  printed  in  Figaro,  24  August  1890. 
**I  know  nothing  whatever  of  M.  Maurice 
Maeterlinck.  I  don't  know  where  he  comes 
from  or  anything  about  his  present  condition. 
I  don 't  know  whether  he  is  old  or  young,  rich 
or  poor.  I  only  know  that  no  man  is  more 
unknown  than  he ;  and  I  know  also  that  he  has 
produced  a  masterpiece,  not  indeed  a  master- 
piece so  labeled  in  advance,  such  as  our  young 
poets  publish  every  day,  sung  on  every  note 
in  their  yelping  lyre,  or  rather  on  the  con- 
temporary yelping  flute;  but  an  admirable 
and  pure  eternal  masterpiece,  a  masterpiece 
which  is  enough  to  immortalise  a  name  and 
194 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

to  make  this  name  blessed  by  all  who  hunger 
for  the  lofty  and  the  beautiful ;  a  masterpiece, 
such  as  all  honest  and  struggling  artists, 
sometimes,  in  their  moments  of  enthusiasm, 
have  dreamed  of  writing  and  such  as  no  one 
of  them  has  written  until  now.  In  short,  M. 
Maeterlinck  has  given  us  a  work  the  most 
full  of  genius  of  any  of  our  time,  and  also  the 
most  extrarodinary  and  the  most  simple, 
comparable — shall  I  dare  to  say? — superior 
in  beauty  to  what  is  most  beautiful  ini 
Shakespeare.  This  work  is  called  La  Prin- 
cess e  Maleine,  Are  there  twenty  persons 
living  who  have  heard  of  it  I    I  think  not. ' ' 

This  is  the  beginning  of  the  echoing  cry. 
The  Belgian  Shakespeare.  Now  it  is  easy 
enough  to  laugh  at  this  rhapsody,  as  many 
have  done ;  but  Mirbeau  was  not  so  far  from 
the  truth.  Certainly  the  world  has  not 
placed  Maeterlinck  above  Shakespeare;  cer- 
tainly La  Princesse  Maleine  in  itself  does  not 
and  did  not  deserve  such  extravagant  praise. 
But  the  most  important  thing  to  remember  is 
that  Octave  Mirbeau  recognised  the  genius  in 
this  play  at  a  time  when  the  author  was  un- 
known; and  Mirbeau  was  right  in  his  wild 
enthusiasm,  for  Maeterlinck,  although  no  one 
195 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

but  Mirbeau  suspected  it,  was  to  be  accepted 
as  one  of  the  great  writers  of  the  world. 

It  is  not  only  remarkable  that  Maeter- 
linck's genius  should  have  been  recognised 
just  as  it  rose  on  the  horizon  of  letters ;  it  is 
even  more  remarkable  that  the  lookout  who 
saw  it  was  Octave  Mirbeau.  This  hard- 
headed,  windbitten  Norman  radical,  who 
hated  mystery  and  sentiment  and  romance 
and  illusion,  who  was  later  to  write  one  of  the 
best  realistic  plays  of  his  time,  was  the  one 
man  in  France  who  saluted  the  poet  of 
dreams. 

Mirbeau 's  voice  did  not  carry  far  in  those 
days,  and  his  enthusiasm  caused  only  a  local 
flurry ;  though  what  the  feelings  of  the  young 
Belgian  were  can  only  be  dimly  imagined. 
Maeterlinck  was  not  really  universally  known 
until  his  play  The  Blind — Les  Aveugles — 
was  produced  by  Lugne  Poe  on  7  Decem- 
ber 1891.  Of  course  the  play  had  no  **run,'' 
but  it  made  a  sensation,  and  I  remember 
reading  in  the  American  papers  an  account 
of  the  strange  piece  with  an  analysis  of  the 
plot. 

The  next  time  Maeterlinck  appeared  in  the 
American  press  was  through  a  succes  de 
196 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

scandale.  He  had  translated  the  decadent 
but  powerful  Elizabethan  tragedj^  by  John 
Ford,  'Tis  Pity,  for  the  Theatre  de  TOeuvre, 
in  1895.  It  will  be  remembered  that  in  this 
drama  a  brother  is  in  love  with  his  sister ;  he 
stabs  her,  cuts  out  her  heart  with  his  dag- 
ger, and  with  the  bleeding  heart  poised  on 
the  point  of  the  blade,  rushes  into  a  dining- 
room  where  a  fashionable  dinner  is  in  prog- 
ress. The  New  York  World,  which  can 
hardly  be  blamed  for  not  knowing  much  at 
that  time  about  the  Belgian,  called  him  Mae- 
ckirling;  the  news  item  said,  *^  Paris  has  been 
shocked.  This  difficult  feat  has  been  accom- 
plished by  a  writer  named  Maeckirling. '  ^ 
The  report  went  on  to  say  that  on  the  first 
night  a  fresh  sheep's  heart  had  been  used, 
but  so  many  ladies  in  the  audience  and  on 
the  stage  fainted,  that  in  subsequent  perform- 
ances a  flannel  heart  had  been  substituted. 

Years  later  a  professor  in  an  Eastern  col- 
lege in  America  asked  his  class  if  they  knew 
who  Maeterlinck  was,  and  one  youth  volun- 
teered confidently  this  information.  **He  is 
the  king  of  Abyssinia.'' 

As  soon  as  Maeterlinck  became  known  in 
America,  parodies  and  burlesques  began  to 
197 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

appear.  This  was  inevitable — it  had  hap- 
pened to  Ibsen,  Browning,  Henry  James,  and 
to  all  authors  whose  plain,  definite  meanings 
do  not  float  on  the  surface  of  the  printed 
page.  The  peculiar  style  of  the  Belgian, — 
simple  naive  language  that  nevertheless  was 
incomprehensible,  all  the  more  maddening 
because  apparently  so  elementary,  the  con- 
stant repetitions,  the  apparent  non-sequiturs, 
made  him  a  mark  for  journalistic  humour. 
And  indeed  it  would  be  difficult  to  write  a 
burlesque  of  The  Seven  Princesses,  his  most 
opaque  and  least  important  work.  I  at- 
tended an  amateur  performance  of  that  play, 
where  at  first  the  audience  endeavoured  to 
listen  respectfully;  but  soon  the  dialogue 
made  that  impossible;  restrained  gayety 
finally  gave  way  to  roaring  mirth ;  the  audi- 
ence lost  all  shame,  and  the  questions  and 
replies  were  greeted  by  whoops  and  howls 
and  shrieks  of  laughter;  nor  were  we  trying 
to  make  any  hostile  or  burlesque  demonstra- 
tion; we  were  in  such  hysterical,  uncontrol- 
lable pleasure-pain  that  it  was  dangerous  to 
health;  as  I  look  back  on  that  memorable 
evening,  I  think  it  was  the  funniest  **show'' 
I  ever  saw. 

198 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

Yet  it  is  the  ** difficult''  authors  that  hold 
the  highest  place  in  critical  esteem.  Ibsen's 
Master  Builder  is  called  a  work  of  genius, 
although  no  one  has  ever  been  able  to  demon- 
strate what  it  means;  the  fame  of  Henry- 
James  grows  brighter  every  year.  The  com- 
mon people  may  be  grateful  to  an  author's 
amenity,  but  the  more  discriminating  readers 
will  never  place  Longfellow  above  Browning. 
Indeed  there  is  danger  that  Longfellow  will 
not  receive  half  his  due.  It  takes  courage  to 
confess  that  one  enjoys  reading  him.  The 
mystery  of  Maeterlinck's  final  intention  adds 
something  to  his  stature,  as  a  figure  looks 
larger  in  a  fog. 

There  are  two  good  reasons,  among  others, 
for  this.  One  is,  that  a  writer  who  is  not 
transparently  clear,  offers  a  challenge  in 
every  work,  sometimes  on  every  page.  And 
while  we  love  to  have  our  curiosity  satisfied 
by  a  poem  or  a  play  or  a  novel  there  is  some- 
thing we  love  even  more ;  to  have  it  aroused. 
The  unfathomable  works  of  art  are  also  su- 
perior to  the  lucid  ones  in  this — they  are 
more  like  life.  For  Life  is  a  greater  mystery 
than  anything  written  about  it.  I  suppose 
this  is  one  reason  why  novelists  who  use 
199 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DKAMATISTS 

'4ocal  colour''  are  admired  least  of  all  in  the 
locality  they  describe.  The  people  who  live 
there  know  they  are  not  like  that;  the  story 
has  a  plot  and  their  lives  have  none.  You 
might  as  well  attempt  to  stop  the  course  of 
a  river  while  you  describe  it ;  or  to  represent 
the  sky  on  a  f air-and-f  oul  day  in  April  by  a 
geometrical  diagram. 

It  is  inevitable  that  Maeterlinck  should 
have  been  labeled;  a  label  is  like  a  proverb 
or  a  catch-phrase,  it  saves  expense  of  thought. 
Thus,  Maeterlinck's  plays  were  called  sym- 
bolistic, static,  and  so  on.  Like  all  artists  he 
felt  the  same  objection  to  classification  that 
the  subjects  of  art  themselves  feel.  In  a 
letter  to  Mr.  Barrett  Clark,  cited  in  the  lat- 
ter's  valuable  book.  The  Continental  Drama 
of  To-day  (1914),  Maeterlinck  wrote,  **You 
must  not  attach  too  great  importance  to  the 
expression  *  Static';  it  was  an  invention,  a 
theory  of  my  youth,  worth  what  most  literary 
theories  are  worth, — that  is,  almost  nothing. 
Whether  a  play  be  static ,  or  dynamic,  sym- 
bolistic or  realistic,  is  of  little  consequence. 
What  matters  is  that  it  be  well  written,  well 
thought  out,  human  and,  if  possible,  super- 
200 


i 


MAUEICE  MAETEKLINCK 

human,  in   the   deepest  significance  of  the 
term.'* 

That  it  be  superhuman  is  not  only  a  fa- 
vourite idea  of  the  Belgian  author,  it  was 
realised  in  all  his  best  plays  except  Monna 
Vanna.  Every  work  of  talent  has  three  di- 
mensions, length,  breadth,  depth — and  if  it 
be  a  work  of  genius,  (which  includes  talent) 
then  it  invariably  has  the  fourth  dimension, 
as  shown  by  the  plays  of  Ibsen.  For  exam- 
ple, Pelleas  and  Melisande,  reduced  to  its 
lowest  terms,  is  the  familiar  tragedy  (Paolo 
and  Francesca)  of  a  young  and  beautiful 
woman  married  to  an  old,  ugly,  uninteresting 
husband,  and  allowed  frequent  conversation 
with  the  husband's  young,  and  brilliant 
brother.  The  same  result  invariably  hap- 
pens, although  not  always  the  same  conse- 
quences. You  have  love,  conscience,  loyalty, 
treachery,  jealousy,  murder,  remorse — surely 
the  ingredients  of  tragedy.  But  over  all  this 
Maeterlinck  throws  a  veil  through  which  we 
see  these  lovers  struggling  helplessly  like 
children  in  the  night;  and  for  the  time  all 
human  life  seems  surrounded  by  impene- 
trable forests  in  which  the  children  are  lost, 
201 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

because  we  have  no  map  and  no  guide.  The 
little  group  of  sufferers,  who  suffer  horribly, 
represent  humanity.  We  feel  the  **  encircl- 
ing gloom. ' ' 

In  the  preface  to  the  three  volume  edition 
of  his  plays,  published  in  1902,  and  which  is 
essential  to  a  comprehension  of  the  earlier 
dramas,  Maeterlinck  wrote,  **  Great  poetry, 
looked  at  closely,  is  composed  of  three  prin- 
cipal elements;  first  the  beauty  of  language, 
then  passionate  contemplation  and  painting 
of  that  which  really  exists  around  us  and  in 
us,  that  is  to  say,  nature  and  our  sentiments, 
and  finally,  enveloping  the  entire  work  and 
creating  its  special  atmosphere,  the  idea 
which  the  poet  makes  for  himself  of  the  un- 
known in  which  float  the  beings  and  the  things 
which  he  creates,  of  the  mystery  which  con- 
trols them  and  judges  them  and  which  pre- 
sides over  their  destinies.  I  am  certain  that 
this  last  element  is  the  most  important.  Ob- 
serve a  beautiful  poem,  no  matter  how  brief 
or  fugitive.  Rarely  do  its  beauty  and  gran- 
deur confine  themselves  to  the  things  we  ac- 
tually know.  Nine  out  of  ten  times  its  great- 
ness depends  on  an  allusion  to  the  mysteries, 
to  human  destiny,  to  some  new  bond  between 
202 


MAURICE  MAETEELINCK 

the  visible  and  the  invisible,  the  temporal  and 
the  eternal. '*  Later,  he  uses  as  illustrations 
of  realistic  plays  that  are  surrounded  by  an 
atmosphere  of  vast  forces,  Tolstoi's  Power 
of  Darkness  and  Ibsen's  Ghosts.  **In  these 
two  dramas  superior  powers  intervene  that 
we  all  feel  pressing  on  our  lives." 

Thus  it  is  clear  that  Maeterlinck  is  not  con- 
tent with  representing  various  individuals  in 
action,  the  common  spectacle  on  the  stage ;  he 
will  have  these  figures,  but  above  all  he 
wishes  to  suggest  to  the  audience  and  to  the 
reader  in  even  greater  emphasis  the  sur- 
rounding mystery  that  controls  both  them 
and  us.  So  it  is  absurd  to  demand  an  ex- 
planation of  every  *^ symbol"  in  Pelleas  and 
Melisande;  the  episode  of  the  ring  was  an 
inspiration  of  genius,  and  tells  more  than 
pages  of  talk. 

The  love  of  ** silence"  in  Maeterlinck's 
plays,  the  suggestion  of  meaning  by  pauses 
and  immobility,  so  characteristic  of  Les 
Aveugles,  L'Intruse,  and  Interieur,  arises,  I 
think,  from  that  overwhelming  desire  in 
every  artist  for  some  better  means  of  com- 
munication than  spoken  words.  It  is  only 
the  unthinking  and  the  inartistic  and  the  un- 
203 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

imaginative  that  find  human  speech  a  satis- 
factory method  of  communicating  ideas  and 
intentions;  perhaps  it  is  adequate  to  the 
ideas  and  intentions  that  such  people  employ ; 
as  some  poems  are  clear  because  they  are 
shallow.  Browning,  who  had  a  wide  vocabu- 
lary and  unusual  power  of  expression,  fre- 
quently cried  out  against  the  inadequacy  of 
words  as  a  vehicle  of  thought.  He  believed 
that  in  the  next  world  we  should  have  some 
better  method. 

Not  so!     Expect  nor  question  nor  reply 
At  what  we  figure  as  God's  judgment-bar! 
None  of  this  vile  way  by  the  barren  words 
Which,  more  than  any  deed,  characterise 
Man  as  made  subject  to  a  curse;  no  speech — 

And  the  intention  of  Maeterlinck's  dramas 
Browning  expressed  in  the  closing  lines  of 
The  Ring  and  the  Book, 

Art  may  tell  a  truth 
Obliquely,  do  the  thing  shall  breed  the  thought, 
Nor  wrong  the  thought,  missing  the  mediate  word. 
So  may  you  paint  your  picture,  twice  show  truth, 
Beyond  mere  imagery  on  the  wall, — 
So,  note  by  note,  bring  music  from  your  mind, 
Deeper  than  ever  e'en  Beethoven  dived. 

204 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

Some  tragedies  are  tragedies  of  surprise, 
like  The  Return  of  the  Druses,  which  has  the 
most  unexpected  and  overwhelming  climax 
that  I  remember  anywhere  in  drama;  others 
are  tragedies  of  suspense.  The  method  in 
each  naturally  corresponds  somewhat  to  the 
terms  dynamic  and  static.  Maeterlinck  is  a 
master  of  suspense ;  the  situation  is  hopeless 
from  the  start;  the  atmosphere  is  charged 
with  disaster,  as  swollen  clouds  are  charged 
with  rain;  the  blow  will  fall,  its  horror  aug- 
mented by  suspense.  Like  Ibsen's  tragedies, 
they  are  all  composed  of  falling  action;  and 
the  dialogues  of  both  Maeterlinck  and  Ibsen 
have  this  in  common;  the  language  is  so  ex- 
tremely simple,  the  sentences  are  so  short, 
the  brief  questions  are  so  frequent,  that  so 
far  as  language  goes,  their  works  may  be 
confidently  recommended  to  beginners  in 
French  and  Norwegian.  Yet  although  the 
words  are  **easy,''  their  significance  is  ob- 
scure.    The  dictionary  does  not  help. 

The  tragic  element  in  suspense  is  height- 
ened by  the  simplicity  of  the  language  and 
by  the  constant  antiphony  of  question  and 
answer.  How  frequently  something  like  this 
happens  in  Ibsen:  (I  am  not  quoting) : 
205 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEKN  DRAMATISTS 

A.  I  have  been  very  sad  this  year. 

B.  You  have  been  sad  ? 

A.  Yes,  I  have  been  sad.    It  was  the  blow. 

B.  The  blow? 

A.  Yes,  my  father  died. 

B.  Ah,  I  remember  hearing  of  it.  It  must  have 
been  a  blow  to  you. 

A.  But  that  was  not  the  real  blow. 

B.  That  was  not  the  real  blow? 

A.  No,  there  was  something  worse  than  that. 

Maeterlinck  often  places  his  characters  on 
one  side  of  a  closed  door — always  a  good 
** symbol.''  Thus,  from  his  first  play,  La 
Princesse  Maleine:  A  dog  is  scratching  at  a 
door. 

La  Nourrice.    II  gratte,  il  gratte,  il  renifle. 
Hjalmar.     II  flaire  quelque  chose  sous  la  porte. 
La  Nourrice.    II  doit  y  avoir  quelque  chose. .  .  . 
Hjalmar.     Allez  voir  .  .  . 
La  Nourrice.    La  chambre  est  fermee;  je  n^ai 
pas  la  clef. 

Hjalmar.    Qui  est-ce  qui  a  la  clef? 
La  Nourrice.    La  reine  Anne. 
Hjalmar.     Pourquoi  a-t-elle  la  clef  ? 
La  Nourrice.    Je  n'en  sais  rien. 

I  agree  with  Ludwig  Lewisohn  that  the  best 
among  the  early  works  is  not  Pelleas  and 
Melisande,  but  the  three  short  plays,  L7w- 
206 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

truse,  Les  Aveugles,  Interieur.  These  are 
original,  are  the  most  economical  in  the  use 
of  symbolism  and  suspense,  and  because  of 
that  very  fact  make  by  these  elements  a  tre- 
mendous impression.  These  dramas  may  be 
dreams,  but  one  cannot  shake  them  off. 

The  static  quality  in  the  plays  written  be- 
fore Monna  Vanna  (1902)  is  best  interpreted 
in  Maeterlinck's  own  words,  which  are  fre- 
quently quoted.  I  take  the  citation  in  Eng- 
lish from  Barrett  Clark:  **I  have  grown  to 
believe  that  an  old  man,  seated  in  his  arm- 
chair, waiting  patiently,  with  his  lamp  be- 
side him;  giving  unconscious  ear  to  all  the 
eternal  laws  that  reign  about  his  house,  in- 
terpreting, without  comprehending,  the  sil- 
ence of  doors  and  windows  and  the  quivering 
voice  of  the  light,  submitting  with  bent  head 
to  the  presence  of  his  soul  and  his  destiny — 
an  old  man  who  conceives  not  that  all  the 
powers  of  this  world,  like  so  many  heedful 
servants,  are  mingling  and  keeping  vigil  in 
his  room,  who  suspects  not  that  the  very  sun 
itself  is  supporting  in  space  the  little  table 
against  which  he  leans,  or  that  every  star  in 
heaven  and  every  fibre  of  the  soul  are  di- 
rectly concerned  in  the  movement  of  an  eye- 
207 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

lid  that  closes,  or  a  thought  that  springs  to 
birth — I  have  grown  to  believe  that  he,  mo- 
tionless as  he  is,  does  yet  live  in  reality  a 
deeper,  more  human,  and  more  universal, 
life  than  the  lover  who  strangles  his  mis- 
tress, the  captain  who  conquers  in  battle,  or 
*the  husband  who  avenges  his  honour.'  " 

The  intimacy  of  silence  is  naturally  the 
most  difficult  of  all  things  to  represent  on  the 
stage.  Yet  in  real  life  silence  is  often  the 
best  means  of  communication  between  those 
whose  affection  is  sincere  and  deep.  Love, 
and  even  friendship,  will  annihilate  formal- 
ity; it  is  only  between  new  or  rarely-meeting 
acquaintances  that  a  constant  flow  of  conver- 
sation must  be  maintained.  Carlyle  and 
-Tennyson  both  agreed  that  the  best  evening 
they  ever  spent  together  was  when  they  sat 
voiceless  for  hours,  opening  their  mouths 
only  to  exhale  tobacco-smoke ;  they  knew  each 
other  so  perfectly  that  they  were  in  absolute 
harmony;  somehow  their  thoughts  traveled 
from  one  to  the  other  through  the  smoky 
fragrance  more  swiftly  and  more  clearly  than 
through  the  medium  of  words.  Mr.  Howells 
said  that  he  and  Mark  Twain  once  entered 
the  smoking  compartment  of  a  train  at  Hart- 
208 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

ford,  sat  directly  facing  each  other  for  three 
hours,  and  neither  spoke  a  word  until  they 
entered  the  station  at  New  York.  Mr. 
Howells  did  not  have  the  power  of  expres- 
sion through  nicotine;  but  both  friends  felt 
no  embarrassment,  and  enjoyed  the  journey 
together. 

This  would  be  static  drama  if  represented 
on  the  stage — and  something  akin  to  this  is 
actually  accomplished  in  the  plays  of  Maeter- 
linck. It  is  communication  through  silence 
— ^not  necessarily  between  human  beings — 
but  between  a  human  being  and  surrounding 
imponderable  forces. 

The  *^ obscurity^'  of  Maeterlinck  is  unlike 
the  obscurity  of  those  authors  whose  lan- 
guage is  clumsy  or  involved;  his  obscurity 
arises  from  the  fact  that  he  is  an  individual 
constantly  oppressed  by  the  environment  of 
vast  mysteries;  and  in  the  simple  language 
of  his  plays  he  is  forever  trying  to  give  to 
the  reader  or  the  spectator  that  double  sense 
of  infinite  distance  and  close  imprisonment. 

A  drama  that  is  usually  passed  over  in 

discussion  of  his  work,  I  believe  to  be  one  of 

his    most    beautiful,    most    important,    and 

therefore     most     lasting — Sister     Beatrice. 

209 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

This  was  written  in  1901,  and  came  just  be- 
fore that  definite  change  in  his  manner  which 
was  marked  the  next  year  by  Monna  Vanna. 
In  Soeur  Beatrice  we  have  a  masterpiece  both 
in  literature  and  on  the  stage.  Yet  he  him- 
self dismisses  it  as  a  trifle.  Of  all  the  mys- 
terious and  unfathomable  passages  in  his 
writings,  I  find  the  plain  prose  of  this  pref- 
ace, so  far  as  it  deals  with  this  particular 
play,  the  most  impenetrable. 

^*As  to  the  two  little  pieces  .  .  .  Ariane  et 
Barhe-Bleue,  ou  la  delivrance  inutile,  and 
Soeur  Beatrice,  I  should  like  to  have  no  mis- 
understanding. It  is  not  because  they  come 
later  in  my  career  that  one  should  search  for 
an  evolution  or  a  new  desire.  They  are,  to 
speak  accurately,  little  stage-plays,  short 
poems  of  a  kind  called  wrongly  enough 
*  opera-comique, '  destined  to  furnish  to  mu- 
sicians who  asked  for  them  a  theme  conveni- 
ent for  musical  development.  They  mean 
nothing  more  than  that,  and  people  will  en- 
tirely mistake  my  intentions  if  they  try  to 
find  great  moral  or  philosophical  hidden 
meanings. ' ' 

It  is  inconceivable  that  Maeterlinck  could 
write  so  powerful  and  affecting  a  play  as 
210 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

Soeur  Beatrice  merely  as  a  libretto.  It  is 
true  that  most  of  his  plays  naturally  lend 
themselves  to  music;  I  think  the  opera  Pel- 
leas  and  Melisande  is  more  beautiful  and 
somehow  more  *^ natural' '  than  the  play;  and 
Monna  Vanna  is  a  steady  success  on  the  op- 
eratic stage,  (though  The  Blue  Bird  was  a 
failure) ;  but  Soeur  Beatrice  is  one  of  the  best 
acting  plays  of  the  twentieth  century,  and  is 
almost  equally  effective  in  the  library.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  performance  I  saw  in 
Germany  in  1904,  when  the  drama  was  given 
by  the  combined  forces  of  the  Neues  and 
Kleines  Theater  from  Berlin;  and  almost 
as  great  an  effect  was  produced  in  America 
by  the  New  Theatre  company,  with  that  re- 
markable interpreter  of  poetry  and  passion, 
Edith  Wynne  Mathison.  When  a  fine  artist, 
the  late  Madame  Komisarshevskaia,  came  to 
America  from  Russia,  I  asked  her  what  was 
her  favourite  role  in  all  modem  drama,  and 
she  replied  without  a  moment's  hesitation, 
Soeur  Beatrice.  She  had  fully  intended  to 
produce  it  in  New  York,  and  was  forbidden 
to  do  so  by  our  monopoly  system,  something, 
that  with  all  her  keenness  and  quickness  of 
intelligence,  was  beyond  her  comprehension. 
211 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

The  story  of  Sister  Beatrice  is  taken  from 
an  old  miracle,  where  the  Holy  Virgin  takes 
the  place  of  an  absent  nun;  and  there  are 
versions  of  it  in  many  languages.  I  remem- 
ber years  ago  reading  the  Bohemian  romance, 
Amis  and  Amil,  by  Julius  Zeyer,  and  finding 
the  story  there.  *^  The  holy  statue  had  disap- 
peared. ...  In  this  moment,  however,  the 
door  of  the  sleeping-chamber  opened  wide  of 
itself,  a  blinding  light  filled  the  passage,  a 
sweet  perfume  in  white  clouds  came  from  the 
room  .  .  .  and  on  the  threshold  appeared  the 
holy  statue.  The  mysterious  veil,  which 
quite  concealed  the  forehead,  moved  as  under 
the  breath  of  a  soft  breeze,  and  out  of  the 
shimmering  folds  fell  white  sweet-smelling 
flowers  like  snowflakes.  Quietly  the  statue 
took  its  place  on  the  golden  throne. ' '  ^ 

It  is  worth  recording  that  a  number  of 
years  ago  Sister  Beatrice  was  given  for  the 
first  time  in  America  under  the  auspices  of 
the  Chicago  Woman's  Club,  and  made  an  in- 

1  Maeterlinck's  play  reawakened  interest  in  the  beau- 
tiful old  fable,  and  those  who  are  interested  may  read  a 
treatise  on  the  subject  published  in  1904:  Die  Geschichte 
der  Marienlegende  von  Beatrix  der  Kuesterin.  By  H, 
Watenphul. 

212 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

efifaceable  impression  on  those  who  saw  it. 
The  critics  were  rather  surprised  at  its  stage 
value. 

Not  only  is  this  one  of  the  best  of  Maeter- 
linck's  plays  for  representation,  provided  al- 
ways the  setting  and  actors  are  adequate, 
but,  despite  his  disclaimer,  it  comes  as  near 
as  any  other  of  his  dramas  to  expressing  his 
philosophy — which  may  be  summed  up  in  the 
one  word  Love.  In  Sister  Beatrice,  Monna 
Vanna,  Joyzelle,  Mary  Magdalene,  The  Blue 
Bird,  The  Betrothal,  Love  is  the  fulfillment 
of  the  law — the  final  philosophy  and  religion. 
It  is  in  this  aspect  of  his  work  that  Maeter- 
linck comes  closest  to  Browning ;  for  the  Eng- 
lish poet  would  have  delighted  in  the  story  of 
the  Virgin  and  in  the  sacrifice  made  by 
Monna  Vanna.  Technically  the  holy  nun  was 
both  unchaste  and  disloyal ;  but  according  to 
Maeterlinck  she  followed  single-hearted  the 
call  of  love;  in  her  absence  therefore  her 
place  was  taken  by  the  infinitely  comprehend- 
ing Blessed  Virgin,  and  on  her  return,  though 
she  comes  in  rags,  broken  in  health,  and  tor- 
tured by  conscience,  she  is  received  into 
glory.  Her  sins  are  forgiven:  for  she  loved 
213 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

much.  I  wish  Browning  had  made  one  of 
his  dramatic  monologues  or  romances  out  of 
this  legend. 

There  is,  as  every  one  has  noticed,  a  def- 
inite turning  point  in  Maeterlinck's  career, 
signified  by  the  production  of  Monna  Vanna 
in  1902.  Up  to  this  time  he  had  been  a  **  lit- 
erary'^  dramatist,  enjoying  a  reputation  as  a 
man  of  letters  and  a  philosopher,  but  not 
regarded  as  a  practical  playwright.  But 
Monna  Vanna  was  and  is  a  brilliant  stage 
play,  full  of  contrasts,  full  of  conflict,  full  of 
passion,  and  ending  with  a  marvellous  oppor- 
tunity for  the  actress.  No  wonder  that  its 
success  has  always  been  associated  with  some 
woman;  for  the  man  who  takes  the  part  of 
Prinzivalle  has  the  thankless  and  difficult  task 
of  remaining  on  the  stage  during  the  third 
act  without  saying  a  word.  Like  a  cinema 
actor,  whose  happiness  and  life  are  at  stake, 
he  must  continually  **  register '^  emotion. 

Two  problems  interested  Maeterlinck  in 
this  play.  Can  a  woman  be  physically  dis- 
honoured and  yet  spiritually  pure!  Should 
a  woman  sacrifice  her  ** honour''  for  her  coun- 
try or  for  the  welfare  of  others,  as  boldly  as 
she  would  sacrifice  her  life  ?  To  both  of  these 
214 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

questions  the  dramatist  gives  an  unqualified 
affirmative ;  in  fact,  he  reemphasises  the  first 
in  Joyzelle, 

Thomas  Hardy  wrote  a  long  and  powerful 
novel  to  prove  the  first  paradox,  for  Tess, 
according  to  her  creator,  is  **a  pure  woman 
faithfully  presented.'^  It  was  the  treatment 
of  the  second  question  which  aroused  sharp 
discussion,  not  only  between  Monna's  hus- 
band and  his  father,  but  in  the  audiences ;  and 
which  led  to  the  English  censor's  prohibi- 
tion. Such  a  case  as  Maeterlinck  brings  up 
is  artificial  or  at  all  events  unlikely;  but  he 
was  interested  I  think  in  the  pliilosophy  of 
love.  If  it  is  right  to  give  our  lives  for  our 
country,  why  should  it  not  be  right  to  sacri- 
fice one's  honour  for  one's  country!  Well, 
so  far  as  men  are  concerned,  the  answer  has 
always  been  and  is  now  affirmative.  As  a 
woman's  honour  is  her  virtue,  so  a  man's 
honour  is  his  honesty.  In  times  of  war  not 
only  do  millions  give  their  lives  for  their 
country,  but  the  highest,  noblest,  most  patri- 
otic service  of  all  is  performed  by  the  spy, 
who  sacrifices  his  oath,  his  word  of  honour, 
his  truthfulness,  everything  he  holds  most 
dear — this  is  really  the  ** supreme  sacrifice." 
215 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

How  he  must  envy  the  men  in  the  casualty 
list! 

Maeterlinck  applies  this  same  supreme  sac- 
rifice to  woman.  It  is  possible  that  he  was 
thinking  of  that  great  scene  in  A  DolVs 
House,  where  the  husband  says  to  the  wife, 
**I  would  gladly  work  for  you  day  and  night, 
Nora — bear  sorrow  and  want  for  your  sake — 
but  no  man  sacrifices  his  honour,  even  for  one 
he  loves. ' '  To  which  Nora  replies,  ^  ^  MilHons 
of  women  have  done  so.*'  The  husband  of 
Nora  and  the  husband  of  Monna  Vanna  are 
alike  in  being  colossally  selfish;  for  in  each 
instance  the  man  was  thinking  of  his  honour, 
of  his  loss — not  at  all  of  his  wife 's  suffering. 
And  in  each  instance  the  case  is  made  as  dif- 
ficult as  possible  By  the  dramatist,  in  order 
to  underline  his  point.  The  natural  result  is 
that  thousands  of  men  sympathise  with  the 
two  husbands,  and  think  their  anger  quite 
justified.  But  whatever  the  individual  dif- 
ficulty, and  Monna  Vanna 's  husband  can 
hardly  be  expected  to  view  the  situation  with 
enthusiasm,  the  Norwegian  and  the  Belgian 
were  both  trying  to  teach  the  supremacy  of 
Love.  Love  sticks  at  nothing  and  knows  no 
barriers. 

216 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

Observe  how  in  both  these  plays  it  is  the 
last  act  that  reveals  male  selfishness.  What- 
ever sympathy  we  may  have  had  with  the 
man  in  the  earlier  scenes,  he  himself,  by  his 
selfish  egotism,  alienates  us  in  the  end,  even 
as  he  slays  love  in  his  wife's  heart.  Had 
Guido  or  Helmer  known  what  love  was,  they 
would  have  seen  and  have  understood.  For 
Love  is  only  sand-blind;  selfishness,  egotism, 
conceit  are  in  the  dark. 

Whether    Monna    Vanna    was    right    or, 
wrong,  her  decision  was  a  test  of  her  hus- 
band's character;  and  Browning  tells  us  that 
even  a  crime  may  be  a  test  of  virtue. 

The  meaning  of  Monna  Vanna  ought  to  be 
transparently  clear,  for  in  this  play  the  au- 
thor emerged  from  the  veil  of  symbolism. 
Yet  many  have  misunderstood  it.  In  two 
letters  to  two  enquirers,  Maeterlinck  said 
that  Monna  Vanna  is  a  true  heroine,  and 
old  Marco  the  inspiring  genius — he  repre- 
sents the  final  wisdom  of  life,  having  lived 
long  and  learned  much.  Monna  Vanna  sym- 
pathised keenly  with  her  husband's  agony  in 
the  first  act,  and  still  loved  him;  she  would 
have  continued  to  love  him,  even  after  the 
affecting  interview  with  Prinzivalle;  but  his 
217 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

stupidity  and  total  lack  of  confidence  in  her 
and  in  her  word  finally  open  her  eyes  to  his 
meanness.  She  strives  no  longer  against  her 
growing  love  for  Prinzivalle,  and  will  fly  with 
him  to  some  remote  place,  where  if  destiny 
permits,  she  will  begin  a  new  and  happier  life. 
In  this  explanation,  Maeterlinck  used  almost 
the  exact  words  of  Ibsen:  *^she  recognises 
that  her  marriage  has  been  a  lie.'' 

The  first  performance  of  Maeterlinck's 
Mary  Magdalene  took  place  in  the  English 
language  and  on  the  New  York  stage;  it 
happened  at  the  New  Theatre,  5  December 
1910.  There  were  three  difficulties;  the 
translation  was  not  very  good,  the  leading 
actress  was  miscast,  and  every  one  was  re- 
minded of  Paul  Heyse's  play  on  the  same 
theme,  which  had  been  powerfully  inter- 
preted in  English  by  Mrs.  Fiske.  Two 
points  were  borrowed  from  Heyse ;  and  when 
Maeterlinck  wrote  to  the  old  German  drama- 
tist asking  permission  to  use  them,  he  was  re- 
fused not  only  unequivocally  but  harshly. 
Then  he  determined  to  use  them  anyway,  say- 
ing in  his  preface  that  one  was  taken  from  the 
New  Testament  and  the  other  was  common 
stage  property — it  was  in  fact  the  ethical 
218 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

problem  that  we  have  already  seen  in 
Monna  Vanna  and  in  Joyzelle,  It  seemed  at 
one  time  to  obsess  Maeterlinck. 

Maeterlinck  bought  an  old  Norman  Abbey- 
near  Rouen,  where  a  performance  of  Mac- 
heth  attracted  wide  attention.  It  was  in  this 
romantic  and  inspiring  Abbey  of  Saint 
Wandrille — which  gave  him  even  more  in- 
spiration than  he  could  have  hoped  for — 
that  he  wrote  The  Blue  Bird  (which,  by  the 
way,  never  should  be  called  in  English  The 
Bluebird),  This  carried  his  fame  to  the  re- 
motest parts  of  the  earth,  and  unsupported, 
it  is  sufficient  to  carry  his  fame  to  remote 
generations.  It  is  the  crown  of  his  life's 
work,  summing  up  all  his  best  qualities  as 
poet,  dramatist,  play\vright.  His  early 
dramas  are  a  greater  success  in  the  library 
than  on  the  stage ;  Monna  Vanna  is  a  greater 
success  on  the  stage  than  in  the  library ;  The 
Blue  Bird  is  equally  great  in  both  places — 
it  is  a  masterpiece  in  literature  and  all-con- 
quering in  the  theatre.  It  is  an  original  and 
beautiful  play;  it  is  a  distinct  contribution 
to  our  present  glorious  age  of  drama. 

When  the  author  had  it  ready  for  the  stage, 
he  sent  it  to  Mr.  Stanislavski,  the  Director  of 
219 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

the  Artistic  Theatre  at  Moscow.  It  was 
played  in  the  Russian  language  in  the  year 
1908,  and  from  that  first  night — the  world's 
most  exciting  premiere  since  Cyrano  de 
Bergerac — it  traveled  far  and  fast.  It  has 
been  given  at  the  Moscow  theatre  alone  over 
three  hundred  times;  when  put  on  at  Lon- 
don, 8  December  1909,  it  ran  for  over  three 
hundred  performances,  the  excitement  being 
so  intense  that  they  were  often  forced  to  give 
twelve  presentations  every  week;  when  it 
started  the  second  season  of  the  New  Theatre 
in  New  York,  1  October  1910,  it  was  the  talk 
of  the  town. 

Like  Peter  Pan  it  charmed  both  young  and 
old.  The  delight  of  the  children  was  audi- 
ble at  every  performance;  but  the  ** deeper 
joys''  of  men  and  women  were,  if  less  vocal, 
even  more  in  evidence.  For  just  as  in  all 
his  work,  Maeterlinck's  language  is  simple 
and  his  ideas  complex,  so  The  Blue  Bird  ap- 
peals to  human  beings  at  every  stage  in  their 
journey. 

The  best  account  of  the  original  Russian 
presentation  may  be  found  in  Oliver  M.  Say- 
ler's  book.  The  Russian  Theatre  and  the  Rev- 
olution (1920).  While  people  were  being 
220 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

shot  down  in  the  streets,  and  the  spectators 
in  the  theatre  had  to  dodge  bullets  on  their 
homeward  way,  this  lovely  fairy  tale  capti- 
vated packed  houses,  just  as  it  did  during  its 
first  season,  just  as  it  will  a  hundred  years 
from  now.  The  company  at  the  Artistic  The- 
atre is  the  finest  and  best-drilled  company  of 
actors  in  the  world ;  it  was  a  notable  compli- 
ment to  give  them  The  Blue  Bird,  but  they 
were  worthy  of  it.  Mr.  Sayler  gives  the 
speech  of  Director  Stanislavski  to  his  troupe, 
spoken  before  they  began  rehearsals. 

*^The  production  of  The  Blue  Bird  must 
be  made  with  the  purity  and  fantasy  of  a 
ten-year-old  child.  It  must  be  naive,  simple, 
light,  full  of  the  joy  of  life,  cheerful  and  im- 
aginative like  the  sleep  of  a  child ;  as  beauti- 
ful as  a  child  ^s  dream  and  at  the  same  time 
as  majestic  as  the  ideal  of  a  poetic  genius 
and  thinker.  Let  The  Blue  Bird  in  our  the- 
atre thrill  the  grandchildren  and  arouse  seri- 
ous thoughts  and  deep  feelings  in  their 
grandparents.  Let  the  grandchildren  on 
coming  home  from  the  theatre  feel  the  joy 
of  existence  with  which  Tyltyl  and  Mytyl  are 
possessed  in  the  last  act  of  the  play.  At  the 
same  time  let  their  grandfathers  and  grand- 
221 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

mothers  once  more  before  their  impending 
death  become  inspired  with  the  natural  de- 
sire of  man:  to  enjoy  God's  world  and  be 
glad  that  it  is  beautiful.  ...  If  man  were  al- 
ways able  to  love,  to  understand,  to  delight 
in  nature!  If  he  contemplated  more  often, 
if  he  reflected  on  the  mysteries  of  the  world 
and  took  thought  of  the  eternal!  Then  per- 
haps the  Blue  Bird  would  be  flying  freely 
among  us.  .  .  .  [Can  you  imagine  New  York 
managers  talking  to  New  York  actors  like 
that?]  In  order  to  make  the  public  listen 
to  the  fine  shades  of  your  feelings,  you  have 
to  live  them  through  yourself  intensely.  To 
live  through  definite  intelligible  feelings  is 
easier  than  to  live  through  the  subtle  soul 
vibrations  of  a  poetic  nature.  To  reach 
those  experiences  it  is  necessary  to  dig  deep 
into  the  material  which  is  handed  to  you  for 
creation.  To  the  study  of  the  play  we  shall 
devote  jointly  a  great  deal  of  work  and  at- 
tention and  love.  But  that  is  little.  In  ad- 
dition, you  have  to  prepare  yourselves  inde- 
pendently. I  speak  of  your  personal  life 
observation  which  will  broaden  your  imagi- 
nation and  sensitiveness.  Make  friends  of 
children.  Enter  into  their  world.  Watch 
222 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

nature  more  and  her  manifestations  sur- 
rounding us.  Make  friends  of  dogs  and  cats 
and  look  oftener  into  their  eyes  to  see  their 
souls.  Thereby,  you  will  be  doing  the  same 
as  Maeterlinck  did  before  he  wrote  the  play, 
and  you  will  come  closer  to  the  author.  .  .  . 
More  than  anything  else,  we  must  avoid  the- 
atricalness  in  the  external  presentation  of 
The  Blue  Bird,  as  well  as  in  the  spiritual  in- 
terpretation, for  it  might  change  the  fairy 
dream  of  the  poet  into  an  ordinary  extrava- 
ganza. ' ' 

Although  I  would  give  much  to  see  The 
Blue  Bird  in  the  Moscow  Theatre,  I  do  not 
believe  the  Russian  Cat  and  Dog  were  any 
better  than  the  American  pair  in  1910.  The 
late  Jacob  Wendell,  an  actor  who  was  stead- 
ily growing  in  authority,  made  the  dog  so 
real  that  many  wept  at  his  fidelity.  Cecil 
Yapp  was  marvellous — his  face,  his  agility, 
the  way  he  paused  in  the  midst  of  washing 
his  cheek,  his  feline  sneeze — he  simply  was 
the  Cat.  It  is  possible  that  his  cat-life 
robbed  him  of  something  human ;  for  though 
I  have  frequently  seen  him  in  other  plays, 
he  has  n*er\^er  been  so  convincing  as  he  was 
in  The  Blue  Bird. 

223 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEKN  DRAMATISTS 

So  far  as  The  Blue  Bird  has  any  philoso- 
phy, it  is  pessimism ;  even  in  that  amazingly 
beautiful  scene — the  best  in  the  New  York 
version — the  Land  of  Memory,  the  pathos 
arises  from  the  fact  that  the  dead  never  live 
at  all  except  when  the  living  think  of  them; 
which  makes  the  graveyard,  with  the  ex- 
clamation There  are  no  Dead  seem  as  incon- 
sistent as  the  scene  showing  that  all  individ- 
uals have  a  definite  existence  long  before 
they  are  born.  Furthermore,  at  the  end  of 
the  play  the  Blue  Bird  disappears;  nor  did 
the  children  need  to  learn  about  it,  because 
at  the  opening,  their  delight  in  the  view  of 
their  rich  neighbours'  happiness  is  quite  un- 
shadowed by  envy,  a  charming  episode.  But 
why  look  for  logic  in  a  work  of  art?  or  why 
cloud  a  thing  of  beauty  by  pointing  out  in- 
consistencies ? 

In  the  autumn  of  1918,  under  the  direction 
of  Winthrop  Ames,  the  first  performance  on 
any  stage  of  The  Betrothal  took  place  in  the 
English  language  and  in  New  York.  Ob- 
serve again  how  slight  is  the  connexion  be- 
tween the  French  theatre  and  the  French 
plays  of  Maeterlinck.  His  motto  for  a  pre- 
miere appears  to  be  *^ Nowhere  in  France.'' 
224 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

One  cannot  blame  him,  when  one  thinks  of 
the  conventional  contemporary  Parisian 
plays  and  audiences. 

As  it  is  more  difficult  to  keep  a  reputation 
than  to  make  one,  so  it  has  ever  been  more 
difficult  to  write  a  sequel  than  an  initial  mas- 
terpiece. Vingt  Ans  Apres  is  a  notable  ex- 
ception, the  most  notable  of  all  being,  as  one 
of  my  undergraduate  students  suggested,  the 
New  Testament.  But  nearly  all  attempts  to 
repeat  share  the  fate  of  Tennyson's  Lochsley 
Hall  Sixty  Years  After,  The  Charge  of  the 
Heavy  Brigade,  The  Death  of  (Enone;  Black- 
more  's  Slain  by  the  Doones,  Barrie  's  Tommy 
and  Grizel,  and  so  on. 

Therefore  The  Betrothal  was  an  agreeable 
surprise.  It  naturally  and  inevitably  lacked 
the  novelty  of  The  Blue  Bird,  but  the  inspira- 
tion was  equally  fresh  and  strong.  The  in- 
terest was  steadily  maintained,  the  successive 
scenes  were  both  beautiful  and  captivating, 
and  there  was  the  same  combination  of  fresh 
simplicity  and  far-reaching  imagination.  It 
was  even  more  provocative  to  thought  than 
The  Blue  Bird,  presenting  its  ideas  in  a  more 
aggressive  and  challenging  way.  The  only 
thing  that  militates  against  the  success  of 
225 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

The  Betrothal  is  the  enormous  cost  of  the 
production;  even  with  the  theatre  packed 
night  after  night,  it  did  not  meet  expenses. 

Although,  here,  as  in  The  Blue  Bird,  hap- 
piness, if  it  exists  anywhere,  is  to  be  found 
right  at  home — for  the  young  man,  after  ex- 
perimenting with  many  distant  strangers, 
finally  marries  his  little  neighbour — the  old 
bugbear  Destiny  has  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
In  the  early  scenes,  Destiny  is  a  colossal  fig- 
ure; he  constantly  becomes  smaller,  and  fi- 
nally he  is  no  bigger  than  a  doll,  and  is  han- 
dled contemptuously  by  human  beings.  The 
Ancestors  hold  the  trumps,  and  determine  the 
young  man's  choice  of  his  mate.  They 
are  a  heterogeneous  collection.  After  seeing 
this  play,  one  might  logically  believe  that  The 
Blue  Blood  is  as  difficult  to  find  as  The  Blue 
Bird. 

Maeterlinck's  war  play,  A  Burgomaster  of 
Belgium,  was  produced  in  New  York  in  the 
spring  of  1919,  and  while  it  was  much  better 
than  most  war  plays,  it  will  add  little  to 
Maeterlinck's  reputation.  The  truly  remark- 
able thing  is  Maeterlinck's  aloofness.  It  was 
written  during  the  darkest  hours,  by  a  man 
passionately  devoted  to  his  country  and  that 
226 


MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

country  Belgium;  yet  the  presentation  of 
characters  and  scenes  was  so  objective  that 
some  idiots  thought  the  piece  was  pr<J-Ger- 
man. 

Maeterlinck  has  always  been  a  greater 
writer  than  philosopher ;  a  greater  master  of 
style  than  of  thought.  It  is  pathetic  to  think 
how  eagerly  his  visit  to  America  was  awaited 
by  those  who  thought  he  really  had  some- 
thing new  to  tell  them  of  the  spirit  world; 
some  proof  that  this  time  should  be  positive. 
Alas,  the  only  thing  in  his  lecture  that  could 
be  called  new  was  his  language,  and  that  was 
even  more  unintelligible  than  the  messages 
of  ghosts.  He  himself  was  honest  and  can- 
did ;  he  gave  us  his  own  personal  opinion,  his 
impressions  after  considering  various  facts. 
Nor  have  I  ever  regarded  him  as  a  great 
Teacher,  as  so  many  seem  to  do.  It  is  just 
as  impossible  to  formulate  a  universal  phi- 
losophy as  it  is  to  demonstrate  the  abso- 
lute truth  of  religion.  Maeterlinck  loves 
metaphysical  speculation ;  he  has  studied  and 
reflected  much;  he  knows  ancient  writers, 
Flemish  mystics,  Carlyle  and  Emerson  by 
heart.  He  observes  life  with  the  minuteness 
of  the  scientist  and  with  the  imagination  of 
227 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

the  poet — men  and  women,  animals  and  flow- 
ers. He  has  not  only  written  about  mediaeval 
and  modern  heroes  and  heroines,  he  has  writ- 
ten about  dogs  and  bees.  Even  so,  he  is  more 
Dreamer  than  Interpreter. 

But  although  Maeterlinck  is  not  a  great 
teacher  nor  a  great  philosopher,  he  is  a  great 
writer,  a  great  dramatist,  a  great  Artist. 
The  so-called  ** truths'^  of  philosophy  pass 
away,  for  they  are  often  mere  fashions  of 
thought;  every  professional  philosopher  has 
them  in  his  shop-window ;  sometimes  they  are 
garments  covering  lifeless  blocks ;  you  ask  for 
an  idea  and  you  get  a  phrase ;  to-morrow  the 
world  will  all  be  running  after  new  phrases, 
'which  will  then  be  as  fashionable  as  the  catch- 
words of  to-day.  But  Beauty  endures  for- 
ever. 


228 


EDMOND  ROSTAND 

The  twentieth  century  French  Drama  has 
been  overrated.  Critics  speak  of  Hervieu, 
Capus,  Donnay,  Bataille,  Lavedan  and  Bern- 
stein as  though  they  were  not  only  clever 
play-makers,  which  they  are,  but  as  though 
they  were  thinkers  and  dramatists,  which 
they  are  not.  (Yet  four  in  the  list  mentioned 
were  elected  to  the  French  Academy.)  They 
are  all  men  of  the  theatre,  but  not  men  of 
ideas.  If  they  had  really  followed  the 
Leader,  Henry  Becque,  they  might  have  pro- 
duced plays  of  permanent  value;  Les  Cor- 
heaux  is  worth  their  combined  production. 
With  a  complete  knowledge  of  the  technique 
of  construction,  they  chose  to  study  **  real- 
ism" rather  than  reality.  With  an  empty, 
hollow  formula,  and  only  one  theme — 
adultery — they  gave  to  the  French  theatre  a 
depressing  monotony — for  there  is  no  mo- 
notony so  depressing  as  the  monotony  of 
restlessness.  They  suggest  constant  activity 
with  no  vitality;  they  seem  to  be  suffering 
229 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

from  nervous  exhaustion.  A  character  in  a 
modem  French  play,  significantly  named  Les 
Marionettes,  makes  a  speech  that  must  be 
echoed  by  many  spectators;  *^The  air  we 
breathe  here  is  bad.  I  need  some  rest,  some 
solitude.  And  above  all  I  should  be  glad  if  I 
could  hear  people  talk  about  something  be- 
sides love.'' 

In  spite  of  the  towering  reputation  of  these 
writers,  they  have  not  altogether  escaped 
condemnation.  Mr.  Ashley  Dukes,  in  his 
book,  Modern  Dramatists,  speaking  of  Ibsen, 
says,  *Hhe  playwrights  of  his  day  were  liv- 
ing in  an  atmosphere  of  half-truths  and 
shams,  grubbing  in  the  divorce  court  and  liv- 
ing upon  the  maintenance  of  social  intrigue 
just  as  comfortably  as  any  bully  upon  the 
earnings  of  a  prostitute.''  Later  on,  he  re- 
marks, **In  order  that  the  bankruptcy  of 
modern  French  drama  may  be  fully  under- 
stood, it  is  only  necessary  to  glance  at  the 
authors  who  hold  the  stage  of  present-day 
Paris  (1911)." 

At  about  the  same  time  M.  Paul  Flat,  in 

Figures  du  Theatre  Contemporain,  speaking 

of  Henry  Bernstein,  said,  **Who  will  deliver 

us  from  the  immortal,  everlasting  theme  of 

230 


EDMOND  ROSTAND 

adultery,  with  its  manifold  variations,  in- 
numerable as  human  heart-beats,  I  admit,  but 
equally  monotonous,  and  of  which  we  finally 
become  weary?  Who  will  find  for  us  an- 
other motive  of  dramatic  interest,  besides 
these  husbands  invariably  deceived  by  their 
weary-hearted  wives,  misunderstood,  uncom- 
prehended,  to  whom  life  has  not  given  the 
things  they  lusted  for,  Parisian  and  provin- 
cial Bo  vary  s  who  renew  their  youth  and  be- 
come modern.  ...  Yes,  what  a  novelty  it 
would  be  and  what  an  audacity!  What  a 
sigh  of  relief  we  should  breathe  in  escaping 
from  this  horrible  banality,  which  theatrical 
convention  fastens  upon  us,  according  to 
which  apparently  no  genuine  dramatic  mo- 
tive can  exist  except  unhappy  and  guilty  pas- 
sion, the  deceived  husband  and  the  thousand 
consequences!'' 

That  admirable  French  critic,  M.  Henry 
Bordeaux,  in  the  same  year  in  which  ap- 
peared Mr.  Dukes's  book  (1911)  relieved  his 
mind  in  similar  fashion  in  the  dedicatory  let- 
ter to  his  second  volume  of  La  Vie  au  Theatre. 
**Yet  I  also  love  the  theatre  after  my  own 
fashion,  which  is  not  yours.  You  love  it  like 
a  collector  of  specimens,  whereas  I  seek  a 
231 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DKAMATISTS 

mirror  of  contemporary  life,  and  indeed  of 
all  life.  That  means  that  I  am  often  de- 
ceived. For  a  long  time  our  stage  was  the 
most  accurate  expression  of  our  literature. 
Our  race,  particularly  sociable,  was  eagerly 
fond  of  movement,  charm,  and  powerful  an- 
alysis. We  found  there  fine  social  and  in- 
dividual analysis,  a  study  of  characters  fash- 
ioned by  the  work  of  centuries,  our  own  clear 
and  ardent  feelings.  But  too  many  conven- 
tions, exigencies  and  intrigues  came  in.  To- 
day the  theatre  has  ceased  to  represent  us 
as  we  are.  With  some  exceptions,  a  new  ro- 
manticism disfigures  us.  It  is  a  romanticism 
sensual,  worldly,  even  savage.  Our  stage 
heroes  seem  born  quite  alone,  with  no  one  to 
help,  and  if  they  marry  they  never  have 
children.  Thus  their  life  is  represented  as 
totally  lacking  in  duties.  The  only  thing 
they  do  is  to  make  the  most  of  it  selfishly. 
We  know  well  enough  that  life  is  a  little  more 
complex  than  that,  and  the  only  truly  in- 
teresting conflicts  are  those  where  struggle 
men  and  women  who  have  a  moral  conscience. 
Apart  from  that,  these  are  nothing  but  the 
gambols  of  brutes.  Therefore  it  is  not  un- 
profitable to  indicate,  when  new  plays  ap- 
232 


EDMOND  EOSTAND 

pear,  what  lowers  dramatic  art  and  what 
elevates  it.'* 

The  late  Paul  Hervieu  (1857-1915)  was 
often  called  an  * ^ntellectuaP '  dramatist;  in 
reality  his  plays  are  empty,  and  not  a  sin- 
gle one  is  important.  He  showed  ingenuity 
in  UEnigme,  where  the  audience  as  well  as 
the  husbands  endeavour  to  discover  which 
wife  is  the  adulteress;  in  Le  Dedale,  a  new 
note  is  sounded  on  the  triangle — the  chief 
musical  instrument  known  in  the  French  the- 
atre— where  the  former  husband  seduces  his 
divorced  wife.  The  entire  works  of  Capus 
may  be  summed  up  in  one  weary,  ironical 
smile.  Donnay's  best  play  is  Paraitre,  but 
it  is  slight;  his  much-belauded  L' Autre  Dan- 
ger is  written  around  the  *  Manger'*  of  an 
intrigue  with  a  man  when  he  may  finally  fall 
in  love  with  your  daughter.  Then  you  must 
stand  aside,  and  let  your  lover  marry  your 
daughter,  so  as  not  to  interfere  with  the 
girPs  ** happiness.'*  This  piece  won  the 
French  Academy  prize  in  1903.  But  the  sub- 
ject was  much  better  handled  in  Maupas- 
sant's novel,  Fort  comme  la  Mort,  and  for 
that  matter  in  Bel-Ami,  Of  Bataille's  plays. 
La  Vierge  Folle  is  as  good  or  bad  as  the 
233 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

average.  Lavedan,  in  addition  to  the  study 
of  a  cynical  Don  Juan  in  Le  Marquis  de 
Priolay  wrote  a  clever  piece  called  Le  Duel, 
where  two  brothers,  a  priest  and  an  atheist- 
ical physician,  fight  for  a  married  woman. 
There  is  room  for  admirable  acting  here,  and 
it  is  a  good  stage-play.  But  it  is  full  of 
tricks.  Of  all  the  Parisian  playwrights,  the 
most  dexterous  is  Henry  Bernstein.  In  the 
theatre  one  comes  under  his  spell,  for  he 
makes  a  series  of  situations  so  exciting  that 
one  forgets  the  unreality  of  the  characters 
and  of  their  adventures.  Perhaps  La  Griff e 
is  his  ** strongest'*  piece,  though  La  Rafale  is 
thrilling;  in  Le  Secret  we  have  a  truer  and 
deeper  psychology. 

That  excellent  critic,  M.  Adolphe  Brisson, 
condemned  the  contemporary  French  drama 
in  much  the  same  fashion  as  M.  Bordeaux, 
and  the  published  correspondence  between 
him  and  the  playwrights  who  resented  his 
strictures,  makes  interesting  reading.  He 
gave  a  preliminary  sign  of  his  final  outbreak 
in  his  remarks  on  Bernstein's  La  Rafale, 
**He  is  a  very  intelligent  man.  And  perhaps 
too  intelligent.  The  sureness  of  his  art,  the 
perfection  of  his  skill,  the  infallible  accuracy 
234 


EDMOND  KOSTAND 

of  his  aim  have  something  which  is  a  bit  dis- 
quieting, something  that  chills.  One  would 
like  to  feel  that  a  heart  was  beating  behind 
this  tragedy;  one  could  wish  that  it  was  less 
implacably  clever,  softened  with  a  tear.  One 
would  even  like  to  see  a  little  awkwardness 
and  true  feeling.  The  play  is  inhuman;  I 
will  say  *  superhuman, '  if  M.  Bernstein  pre- 
fers that  word.  But  I  should  like  it  better  if 
it  were  simply  human.  Mais  quoi!  Am  I 
going  to  grumble  against  my  pleasure  ?  Was 
I  b6red?  No,  indeed.  Was  I  amused?  In- 
finitely. .  .  .  Alors  .  .  .  Alors,  mettons  que 
je  n'ai  rien  dit  et  que  cette  nuance  n^existe 
que  dans  ma  seule  imagination.^' 

That  is  about  the  way  an  honest  spectator 
feels ;  we  are  grateful  to  the  author  for  such 
diabolical  cleverness,  but  w^e  miss  the  touch 
of  nature.  It  is  just  possible — I  saw  signs  of 
it  in  Le  Secret — that  in  the  future  he  may 
add  to  his  gifts  as  a  playwright  the  power 
of  the  dramatist.  There  is  no  hope  for  his 
rivals. 

The  only  difference  between  the  typical 
modern  French  drama,  apart  from  the  excel- 
lence of  the  acting,  and  the  modem  American 
drama,  is  that  most  of  the  French  plays  end 
235 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

tragically  and  ours  end  sweetly.  But  mur- 
der, suicide  and  separation  do  not  necessar- 
ily indicate  works  of  art. 

After  going  to  Parisian  theatres  scores  of 
times,  I  am  convinced  that  their  modern  play- 
wrights, together  with  the  high  prices,  have 
had  a  generally  debasing  effect.  We  are  ac- 
customed to  think  of  a  Parisian  audience  as 
highly  intelligent,  sophisticated,  discriminat- 
ing; really  it  is  not  so.  In  their  attitude 
towards  both  mirth  and  sentiment,  they  are 
not  a  whit  better  than  the  audience  at  New 
York  matinees.  The  intelligent  people  stay 
at  home,  I  suppose — and  when  they  think  of 
the  price  of  a  theatre  ticket,  they  buy  a  good 
book. 

The  one  indisputable  superiority  of  Paris 
over  New  York  is  the  team-acting;  it  is  al- 
ways a  pleasure  to  go  to  the  Comedie  Fran- 
Qaise,  and  see  the  results  of  tradition  and 
sound  training.  What  a  pity  that  such  in- 
telligence, such  skill,  such  art  is  employed  on 
work  so  trivial ! 

After  I  had  written  the  above  paragraphs 

my  belief  that  the  French  theatre  has  been 

debased   by   adultery-mongers   and   shallow 

trickery  is  strengthened  by  reading  in  the 

236 


EDMOND  ROSTAND 

London  Mercury  for  September,  1920,  a  Let- 
ter from  France  on  the  Theatre  du  Vieux- 
Colonihier,  written  by  M.  Albert  Thibaudet, 
in  which  he  says:  *^The  theatre  in  Paris  is 
at  this  moment  passing  through  a  very  grave 
crisis.  It  is  not  a  commercial  crisis.  The 
theatres  continue  to  have  full  houses  and  to 
realise  satisfactory  receipts.  But  their  pros- 
perity is  built  on  the  ruins  of  delicacy  and 
taste.  The  clientele  of  profiteers  which 
makes  the  fortune  of  the  theatres  demands 
and  encourages  productions  in  its  own  im- 
age.'^ 

Apart  from  the  dramatists  that  I  shall 
mention  in  a  moment,  one  of  the  best  twen- 
tieth century  plays  produced  by  professional 
manufacturers  of  drama  is  Les  Affaires  sont 
Les  Affaires,  (1903)  written  by  the  late  Oc- 
tave Mirbeau,  (1850-1917),  his  only  good 
piece.  With  the  marvellous  acting  of  M. 
Feraudy,  this  tragedy  made  a  tremendous 
impression,  and  I  shall  remember  it  so  long 
as  I  live.  That  it  did  not  depend  mainly  on 
the  actor,  however,  is  shown  by  its  success 
all  over  Germany,  in  the  Scandinavian  coun- 
tries, at  Petrograd,  London,  and  New  York. 
Albert  Guinon,  who  wrote  a  number  of  iron- 
237 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DKAMATISTS 

ical  tragedies,  and  who  was  one  of  those 
who  resented  the  criticisms  of  M.  Brisson, 
achieved  a  masterpiece  in  Decadence,  where 
the  dialogue  is  amazingly  brilliant.  This 
was  produced  in  1901,  and  for  some  reason, 
attracted  little  attention,  and  was  quickly  for- 
gotten. When  I  was  in  Paris  in  1903,  I  had 
the  greatest  difficulty  in  finding  a  copy ;  most 
bookshops  had  never  heard  of  it,  and  finally  I 
persuaded  one  bookseller  to  let  me  go  down 
in  the  basement  of  his  emporium,  where  we 
found  it,  covered  mth  dust.  In  1904,  some 
manager  resurrected  it  on  the  stage;  it  had 
a  prodigious  success,  and  sent  the  sale  of  the 
book  into  thousands.  Paul  Flat,  in  the  Re- 
vue Bleue,  wrote  about  it  in  a  state  of  exalta- 
tion; the  play  immediately  appeared  on  the 
German  stage,  where  it  was  the  subject  of 
endless  discussion  in  the  press.  The  **  con- 
flict'' here  is  between  decayed  French  aris- 
tocracy and  newly  rich  Jews,  and  any  reader 
who  wants  a  sensation  may  be  confidently  re- 
ferred to  this  book. 

I  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  French 
drama  if  the  French  stage  were  more  hos- 
pitable to  foreign  dramatists.    The  famous 
critic  Sarcey  named  his  dog  Ibsen  as  a  sign 
238 


EDMOND  KOSTAND 

of  contempt,  and  so  far  as  I  know  the  only 
play  of  Shaw  that  has  appeared  on  the 
stage  is  Candida, 

Several  reactions  have  taken  place  against 
the  lack  of  cerebration  in  modern  French 
drama.  Every  one  knows  of  Brieux — 
rJionnete  Brieux — as  French  critics  called 
him  before  he  was  elevated  to  the  Academy. 
He  has  been  overpraised  by  Shaw,  and  many 
of  his  plays  are  simply  theses,  but  he  has 
brains  and  character.  He  has  felt  keenly  the 
disgrace  that  modern  French  writers  have 
brought  on  the  fair  name  of  France,  and  he 
has  attempted  to  combat  this  both  in  the 
press  and  on  the  stage.  He  is  tremendously 
in  earnest  and  has  a  big  heart — in  his  most 
recent  play  he  has  endeavoured  to  make 
Frenchmen  and  Americans  understand  each 
other.  In  La  Frangaise,  a  charming  comedy, 
written  before  the  war,  he  wished  to  explain 
to  America  that  French  women  were  not  nec- 
essarily lacking  in  virtue.  He  therefore  in- 
troduced an  American  cowboy,  who  has  been 
*  *  seeing  the  sights '  ^  in  Paris,  and  a  Harvard 
student,  who,  by  the  way,  speaks  French 
more  correctly  than  English.  The  cowboy 
tries  to  make  love  to  a  sensible,  humorous 
239 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

French  matron,  and  the  Harvard  student  is 
absurdly  formal  and  stilted.  Both  are  cured. 
Brieux  is  a  force  in  modern  Literature,  but 
I  think  his  best  play  is  one  of  his  earliest, 
Blancltette,  which  deals  with  a  problem  as 
applicable  to  America  as  to  France — what  is 
going  to  become  of  our  high  school  girls? 
Brieux  represents  France  rather  than  Paris ; 
he  has  never  felt  at  home  on  the  Boulevards. 
One  critic  said  of  him,  **He  writes  only  to 
fight.''  Well,  he  has  found  plenty  of  things 
to  attack. 

M.  Brieux  lives  in  a  different  world  from 
that  of  his  contemporaries.  When  he  visited 
America  in  1914  (the  French  could  not  have 
sent  a  better  unofficial  representative)  he  was 
generous  in  giving  interviews,  although  he 
confessed  that  they  were  torture.  He  had 
somehow  the  blunt  sincerity  of  the  country- 
man combined  with  urbanity.  In  the  New 
York  Times  for  15  November  1914,  he  said 
frankly,  **I  consider  that  the  drama,  like 
other  forms  of  literature,  may  legitimately 
be  used  as  an  instrument  for  the  amelioration 
of  social  conditions.  Of  course,  this  truth 
has  not  always  been  recognised.  But  Di- 
derot, the  father  of  bourgeois  drama,  knew 
240 


EDMOND  ROSTAND 

that  it  could  be  so  used.  And  there  is  Mo- 
liere — practically  all  his  plays  voice  a  thesis 
of  social  import.  My  life-work  is  to  use  the 
theatre  in  an  endeavour  to  better  conditions, 
and  my  sincere  wish,  my  greatest  wish,  is 
that  at  the  end  of  my  life  there  may  be  a 
little  less  suffering  on  this  earth.*' 

Although  he  was  keenly  interested  in  the 
composition  of  the  American  cocktail,  as 
readers  of  La  Frangaise  would  know,  he  made 
the  following  prophecies  during  the  war  in 
Le  Journal,  in  answer  to  the  question,  What 
will  be  the  lot  of  French  women  after  the 
war? 

1.  Man  will  give  up  alcoholism.  But  he  must 
be  helped  and  his  excuse  that  the  saloon  is  the  poor 
man's  club  taken  away. 

2.  Man  will  respect  woman  and  no  longer  treat 
her  as  a  being,  puny,  weak  and  compulsorily  sub- 
missive. 

3.  The  abominable  marriage  dowry  institution 
will  disappear.  People  will  marry  not  to  settle 
down  when  youth  is  over,  but  in  full  youth,  to 
live  together  all  their  lives,  with  the  risks  at  the 
beginning,  the  struggles  during  the  years  and  the 
joys  of  success. 

4.  Mothers  will  teach  their  sons  to  respect 
women. 

241 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

5.  No  honest  woman  will  be  at  peace  while  she 
knows  that  somewhere  another  woman  is  forced 
into  the  street  through  physical  or  moral  misery. 

Paul  Bourget  is  of  course  reactionary  in 
art,  morals  and  religion.  In  his  youthful 
education  he  received  a  thorqugh  grounding 
in  both  science  and  classical  literature.  He 
and  Brunetiere  were  schoolmates,  colleagues 
as  teachers,  and  fellow  Academicians — they 
were  in  absolute  harmony  mentally,  and  in 
the  novels  of  one  and  the  critical  essays  of 
the  other,  we  see  the  same  aim.  Bourget 's 
earlier  novels  are,  however,  quite  different  in 
tone  from  the  later  ones.  The  complete 
Bourget  as  we  know  him  to-day,  ardent  Cath- 
olic, aristocrat,  conservative,  moralist,  may 
be  found  in  his  novel  UEtape,  published  in 
1902.  His  plays,  like  all  the  rest  of  his  work, 
are  in  desperate  earnest.  But  while  one  may 
applaud  both  his  idealism  and  his  literary 
skill,  his  dramas  would  have  a  wider  influ- 
ence if  they  had  some  humour,  some  esprit, 
some  charm,  some  sparkle.  He  is  probably 
the  most  conservative  man  of  letters  in 
France.  His  views  might  be  summed  up  as 
follows:  first,  monarchy  is  better  than  de- 
mocracy; second,  independence  in  religious 
242 


EDMOND  EOSTAND 

thought  is  neither  necessary  nor  desirable; 
join  the  Catholic  Church,  which  can  settle 
for  you  every  dogma  and  every  moral  emer- 
gency; third,  absolute  union  of  church  and 
state;  fourth  (and  here,  mirahile  dictu,  he  is 
in  harmony  with  H.  L.  Mencken,  what  a 
team!)  don't  try  to  mix  social  classes;  stay 
at  home  and  remain  in  your  own  social  cir- 
cle. 

With  all  his  literary  gifts  and  intellectual 
endowment,  the  influence  of  such  a  man  is 
not  only  limited,  but  it  is  greatest  where  it 
is  least  needed.  He  comes  to  call  the  right- 
eous, not  the  sinners,  to  repentance. 

One  of  the  severest  possible  criticisms  of 
the  modern  French  theatre  may  be  found  in 
the  fact  that  Maeterlinck  did  not  dare  to 
trust  his  delicate  Blue  Bird  to  a  Parisian  au- 
dience; he  sent  it  off  to  Moscow,  where  the 
first  performance  took  place  in  the  Russian 
language.  From  there  it  flew  all  over  the 
world,  and  finally  reached  Paris. 

Besides  the  social  revolt  of  Brieux,  and 
the  religious  revolt  of  Bourget,  there  was  of 
course  a  rebellion  in  art.  Just  as  Germany 
had  the  Freie  Buhne,  where  Hauptmann's 
world-shaking  Vor  Sonnenaufgang  was  per- 
243 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

formed  in  1889,  so  in  Paris  in  the  year  1887 
was  founded  the  Theatre  Lihre,  by  a  young 
man  who  was  to  become  the  most  distin- 
guished French  Theatre  Director  of  modern 
times,  M.  Andre  Antoine.  Miss  Constance 
Mackay,  in  her  book,  The  Little  Theatre  in 
the  United  States,  quotes  the  late  Jules 
Lemaitre,  himself  a  clever  playwright  and 
great  critic:  '*We  had  the  air  of  good  Magi 
in  mackintoshes  seeking  out  some  lowly,  but 
glorious  manger.  Can  it  be  that  in  this 
manger  the  decrepit  and  doting  drama  is 
destined  to  be  born  again  f  The  drama  was 
not  reborn  in  that  humble  place,  but  from 
this  experiment  the  idea  of  the  **  Little  The- 
atre'^  spread  all  over  the  world,  and  is  to- 
day exerting  a  vast  influence  for  good. 

The  drama  was  not  reborn  there  be- 
cause it  needed  a  man  of  genius,  and  he  was 
not  forthcoming.  They  already  had  Henry 
Becque  as  a  model,  but  none  of  the  young 
writers  were  capable  of  following  him — he 
himself  was  neglected  in  Paris,  and  so  late 
as  1903,  Antoine,  in  a  newspaper  interview, 
called  attention  to  the  fact  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  discover  in  Pere-Lachaise  the  ex- 
act place  where  Becque  was  buried.  Finally 
244 


EDMOND  ROSTAND 

in  1908,  at  the  corner  of  two  avenues  in  the 
city,  a  bust  was  placed  in  his  honour. 

The  best  play  written  for  the  Theatre  Libre 
was  Blanchette,  by  Brieux,  which  is  still  his 
masterpiece.  Two  other  dramatists  of  im- 
portance were  given  an  opportunity — Fran- 
gois  de  Curel  and  Emile  Fabre.  During  the 
war  CurePs  Ame  en  Folie,  played  at  a  little, 
unfasliionable  theatre,  made  a  sensational 
success.  Soon  another  theatre  was  founded 
— this  time  for  the  writers  of  symbolistic  and 
romantic  dramas — the  Theatre  de  L'CEuvre, 
by  an  admirable  scholar  and  actor,  Lugne 
Poe.  They  had  their  man  of  genius  in  Mae- 
terlinck, to  write  both  romantic  and  sym- 
bolistic dramas,  and  they  drew  freely  on 
Ibsen  for  symbolism,  presenting  The  Mas- 
ter Builder.  In  March  1895,  the  company, 
headed  by  Mr.  Poe,  came  to  London,  and  pre- 
sented Maeterlinck's  L'Intruse  and  P^lleas 
and  Melisande,  and  also  Ibsen's  Master 
Builder  and  Rosmersholm.  At  that  time 
Bernard  Shaw  was  slashing  everything  in  the 
Saturday  Review,  but  his  ironical  spirit  was 
first  subdued  and  then  made  worshipful  by 
this  new  example  of  French  art.  He  wrote, 
**M.  Lugne-Poe  and  his  dramatic  company 
245 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEKN  DKAMATISTS 

called  ^L'CEuvre'  came  to  us  with  the  repu- 
tation of  having  made  Ibsen  cry  by  their  per- 
formance of  one  of  his  works.  There  was 
not  much  in  that;  I  have  seen  performances 
by  English  players  which  would  have  driven 
him  tjo  suicide.  But  when  the  first  act  of 
Rosmersholm  had  hardly  begun  on  Monday 
night,  when  I  recognised,  with  something  like 
excitement,  the  true  atmosphere  of  this  most 
enthralling  of  all  Ibsen 's  works  rising  like  an 
enchanted  mist  for  the  first  time  on  an  Eng- 
lish stage.  .  .  .  The  performance  of  Maeter- 
linck 's  Pelleas  and  Melisande  .  .  .  settled  the 
artistic  superiority  of  M.  Lugne-Poe^s  com- 
pany to  the  Comedie  Frangaise.  When  I  re- 
call the  last  evening  I  spent  at  that  institu- 
tion .  .  .  when  I  compare  this  depressing 
experience  with  last  Tuesday  evening  at  the 
Theatre  de  L'CEuvre,  I  can  hardly  believe 
that  the  same  city  produced  the  two.  In  the 
Comedie  Frangaise  there  is  nothing  but  costly 
and  highly  organised  routine,  deliberately 
used,  like  the  ceremonial  of  a  court,  to  make 
second-rate  human  material  presentable.  In 
the  Theatre  de  L'CEuvre  there  is  not  merely 
the  ordinary  theatrical  intention,  but  a  vigi- 
lant artistic  conscience  in  the  diction,  the 
246 


EDMOND  EOSTAND 

stage  action,  and  the  stage  picture,  produc- 
ing a  true  poetic  atmosphere,  and  triumph- 
ing easily  over  shabby  appointments  and  ri- 
diculous incidents. '^ 

Meanwhile  the  conventional  French  drama 
goes  on — Capus,  Donnay,  Bataille,  Lavedan, 
Bernstein  and  MM.  De  Flers  and  Caillavet 
reap  their  harvest.  They  are  facile,  accom- 
plished, witty,  entertaining;  when  they  are 
placed  beside  their  English  contemporaries, 
Barrie,  Galsworthy,  Shaw,  Ervine,  Masefield, 
Barker,  they  become  diminished.  In  com- 
parison with  the  best  British  dramatists  of 
to-day,  they  are  like  children  playing  with 
blocks  in  the  same  room  with  authors  writing 
books. 

One  man  of  genius,  however,  is  better  than 
many  manikins ;  and  modern  France  has  con- 
tributed to  the  literature  of  the  world  the 
greatest  play  since  the  days  of  Shakespeare, 
and  the  greatest  drama  since  Goethe's  Faust. 
From  any  and  every  point  of  view,  Edmond 
Rostand  is  a  giant.  He  is  great  in  so  many 
different  ways — great  as  poet,  dramatist, 
playwright,  wit,  humorist,  romantic  ideal- 
ist, satirist ;  and  as  a  language-virtuoso  he  is 
equally  supreme.  His  dramatic  works  con- 
247 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

sist  of  six  plays — three  minor,  three  major; 
they  are  a  permanent  addition  to  literature ; 
they  contain  characters  that  will  last  as  long 
as  the  best  of  Victor  Hugo  and  the  best  of 
old  Alexandre  Dumas,  which  means  they  will 
last  as  long  as  good  books  are  read. 

It  is  astonishing  how  much  one  man  can 
give  to  his  country;  it  is  true  that  three 
plays  by  Rostand  are  not  only  worth  all  the 
plays  written  by  other  Frenchmen  during  the 
last  thirty  years,  but  that  they  represent  a 
creative  splendour  in  the  theatre  that  has  not 
been  witnessed  since  Shakespeare.  The  first 
night  of  Cyrano  was  the  greatest  first  night 
on  any  stage  within  the  memory  of  living 
man;  the  first  night  of  Chantecler  was  the 
prime  news  of  the  world. 

Just  as  Normandy  produced  those  bitter 
realists,  Flaubert  and  Guy  de  Maupassant, 
whose  novels  and  tales  so  perfectly  illustrate 
the  heart-killing  climate  of  their  native  land, 
so  our  glorious  romantic  poet  came  from  the 
South,  and  the  sunshine  that  flooded  his 
childhood  glows  on  every  page  of  his  dramas. 
It  is  strange  that  his  works  should  be  so  in- 
spiring, for  his  heroes  are  always  beaten,  his 
best  plays  are  all  tragedies ;  yet,  as  one  critic 
248 


EDMOND  ROSTAND 

said,  **  Death  in  Rostand  is  morp  cheerful 
than  Life  in  Maeterlinck/^ 

Edmond  Rostand  was  born  at  Marseilles 
on  1  April  1868,  and  was  the  finest  piece  of 
humour  produced  on  that  memorable  day,  as 
Cyrano  was  the  best  Christmas  present  that 
the  world  had  received  for  a  hundred  years. 
His  father  had  wealth,  education  and  brains 
— a  brilliant  journalist,  who  edited  and  trans- 
lated the  poems  of  Catullus.  The  boy  went 
to  southern  schools,  w^here  his  personality 
was  developed  rather  than  repressed;  then 
he  became  a  student  at  Stanislas  College  in 
Paris,  and  took  a  degree  in  law  in  1890. 
Like  so  many  others,  he  * '  abandoned  law  for 
literature,'^  published  a  volume  of  poems  and 
married  a  French  poet,  Rosemonde  Gerard. 
Her  poems  are  remarkable,  and  if  she  had 
not  married  Rostand,  she  would  be  independ- 
ently famous;  but  you  cannot  see  the  stars 
after  sunrise. 

When  he  was  twenty  years  old,  his  first 
play,  a  one-act  comedy,  Le  Gant  Rouge,  was 
played  at  the  Cluny  Theatre,  24  August  1888, 
and  it  passed  practically  unnoticed.  Rostand 
in  later  times  remarked,  **  There  is  nothing 
to  be  said  about  it,  except  that  it  was  the 
249 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

first  realisation  of  a  dream  that  has  always 
haunted  me  as  a  child,  and  that  was  that  I 
must  write  for  the  stage.'' 

He  wrote  another  one-act  comedy  in  verse, 
took  it  to  the  Comedie  Frangaise,  and 
Feraudy  requested  another  act;  he  then 
finished  Les  Romanesques,  which  received 
the  Toirac  prize  of  four  thousand  francs  for 
the  best  piece  submitted  to  the  Comedie  dur- 
ing the  season  1890-1891,  but  he  had  to  wait 
three  years  to  see  it  performed.  It  was 
played  for  the  first  time  21  May  1894.  Its 
sparkling  freshness  and  vernal  charm  at- 
tracted the  critics,  and  gave  the  author  what 
might  be  called  a  mild  reputation.  He  was 
hailed  as  a  humorist,  and  he  said  that  people 
already  had  him  classified,  and  looked  only 
for  fun  in  his  next  work. 

In  the  autumn  of  this  same  year,  at  the 
house  of  Sarah  Bernhardt,  Ooquelin  being 
also  present,  the  young  poet  read  aloud  La 
Princess e  Lointaine,  which  captivated  the  two 
actors.  Coquelin  predicted  a  great  future, 
little  knowing  that  Rostand  would  surpass 
all  prophecies,  and  hand  his  own  name 
down  to  posterity.  On  5  April  1895,  the  new 
play  was  produced  with  Sarah  BernhaTdt 
250 


EDMOND  ROSTAND 

as  Melissinde,  Guitry  and  Jean  Coquelin  be- 
ing also  in  the  cast;  it  was  not  particularly 
successful;  the  only  play  by  its  author  that 
it  is  really  better  to  read  than  to  see.  Sarcey, 
who,  with  all  his  cleverness,  was  so  often 
blind,  failed  to  see  anything  in  it;  and  it  is 
amusing  to  read  Bernard  Shaw's  criticism 
when  the  great  actress  put  on  the  play  in 
London,  17  June  1895.  The  arch-enemy  of 
romance  ridiculed  it.  Shaw  reviewing  Ros- 
tand is  like  a  harp  solo  criticised  by  Mephis- 
topheles. 

On  14  April  1897,  came  the  first  perform- 
ance, on  Wednesday  of  Holy  Week,  of  La 
Samaritaine;  Evangile  en  trois  tableaux,  en 
vers.  This  cannot  be  said  to  have  been  com- 
pletely successful,  yet  the  dramatist  was 
more  than  satisfied.  *^I  only  allowed  it  to 
be  played  during  Holy  Week.  .  .  .  But  what 
gave  me  the  most  delight  in  its  success  was 
that  I  had  not  only  demonstrated  to  the 
critics  and  to  the  public  that  I  was  something 
more  than  a  writer  of  comedies,  but  that  I 
had  proved  it  to  myself. ' ' 

In  the  same  year  his  name  was  blown  by 
the  trumpets  of  fame  to  the  four  winds  of 
hokven,  for  on  28  December  1897,  came  the 
251 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

first  performance  of  Cyrano  de  Bergerac, 
which  ran  for  over  three  hundred  consecu- 
tive nights.  No  one  believed  that  he  could 
duplicate  this  success,  but  he  did.  On  15 
March  1900,  with  Sarah  Bernhardt  in  the 
title  role,  appeared  UAiglon;  this  tragedy 
convinced  the  world  that  a  living  man  was 
one  of  the  greatest  dramatists  of  all  time. 
The  next  year,  1901,  Rostand  was  elected  to 
the  French  Academy,  being  the  youngest  ever 
chosen,  barely  thirty-three.  His  discourse  in 
1903,  when  he  was  publicly  received,  is  an 
important  document  in  modern  literature. 

We  should  pay  high  tribute  to  the  artistic 
conscience  of  Rostand.  I  suppose  no  modern 
writer  was  naturally  more  gifted  with  im- 
promptu poetry  and  wit ;  his  inspiration  was 
chronic.  Surely  it  is  to  his  credit  that  from 
1901  to  1918  he  produced  only  one  work. 

Yet  how  ardently  I  hope  that  his  drama  on 
Faust,  which  he  had  been  writing  for  years, 
may  have  been  sufficiently  advanced  for  the 
fragment  some  day  to  appear ! 

Ten  years  passed  between  UAiglon  and 

Chantecler,    It  was  impossible  for  Rostand 

to  live  in  Paris,  not  only  because  of  delicate 

health,  but  because  he  could  not  take  a  walk 

252 


EDMOND  EOSTAND 

on  the  street  without  being  followed  by  ador- 
ing crowds.  This  public  homage,  which  was 
the  breath  of  life  to  Victor  Hugo,  was  unen- 
durable to  the  young  poet.  He  went  down  to 
Cambo  in  the  Pyrenees,  built  a  huge  chateau, 
and  spent  his  days  there  in  happy  retire- 
ment. He  changed  his  mind  a  thousand  times 
about  Chant ecler,  which  of  course  he  intended 
to  be  played  by  Coquelin.  Eehearsals  would 
begin  only  to  be  stopped  by  a  telegram  from 
the  author ;  manuscript  would  be  sent  to  the 
press,  only  to  be  similarly  recalled.  When 
one  reads  the  piece,  one  understands;  it 
bristles  mth  turns  of  wit  and  plays  on  words. 
No  doubt  as  soon  as  he  had  put  the  precious 
writing  in  the  post  he  thought  of  an  addi- 
tional jewel.  He  waited  too  long,  however, 
for  Coquelin  died  in  1909. 

Finally  on  7  February  1910,  came  the 
long-awaited  first  night  of  Chantecler,  It 
seemed  as  though  the  whole  world  awaited 
the  verdict  with  breathless  suspense.  And 
the  world  was  right.  Creative  genius  is  the 
most  valuable  gift  that  man  can  receive, 
truly  exceeding  in  importance  all  other 
things.  A  new  work  by  the  foremost  drama- 
tist in  the  world  was  the  greatest  news  then 
253 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

possible.  The  new  play  came  just  at  the  time 
when  Paris  was  suffering  from  an  unprec- 
edented disaster — devastating  floods;  but 
France  forgot  mortal  woe  in  immortal  art. 
I  say  the  world  was  right  in  awaiting  this 
birth  with  hushed  expectation ;  it  speaks  well 
for  the  public  in  all  countries  that  their  eyes 
were  turned  toward  Paris. 

It  is  easy  to  laugh:  it  is  easy  to  sneer  at 
all  this  as  wonderful  advertising.  People 
laugh  now  at  Barnum's  wonderful  prelimi- 
nary advertising  of  Jenny  Lind.  It  certainly 
was  wonderful,  but  there  was  one  thing  more 
wonderful,  and  that  was  Jenny  Lind. 

The  important  fact  remains  that  the  an- 
nouncement of  the  first  night  of  this  play  was 
the  leading  feature  in  the  news  of  the  world. 
As  people  in  Paris  forgot  the  floods,  people 
in  New  York  forgot  the  market.  Here  is  a 
drama  that  has  no  concern  with  the  ordinary 
obsessions  of  mankind — war,  politics,  lust, 
money.  Here  is  a  drama  making  no  tempo- 
rary or  opportune  appeal.  Here  is  a  drama 
known  in  advance  to  be  nothing  except  a 
work  of  art.  And  yet,  in  every  city  in  the 
world,  and  in  thousands  of  villages,  it  loomed 
up  as  the  foremost  fact.  It  was  the  greatest 
254 


EDMOND  ROSTAND 

triumph  known  in  modem  times  for  Art  and 
Letters — and  the  greatest  rout  of  the  Philis- 
tines. On  the  morning  following  the  first 
night  of  the  play  in  Paris,  a  daily  newspaper 
in  Butte,  Montana,  devoted  not  the  first  col- 
umn, but  the  entire  first  page  to  Chantecler! 

During  the  darkest  hours  of  the  war,  the 
French  people  kept  hearing  the  clarion  voice 
of  their  poet,  announcing  the  sunrise  of  vic- 
tory, and  immediately  after  the  day  of  vic- 
tory dawned,  the  voice  became  still.  Ros- 
tand died  on  2  December  1918. 

In  the  Vorspiel  auf  dem  Theater  to  Faust, 
Goethe,  in  language  that  is  as  applicable  in 
1920  as  it  was  when  written,  allows  three  per- 
sons to  present  their  views.  The  eternal  di- 
vergence of  the  three,  and  the  necessity  of 
some  combination  of  all,  have  been  presented 
with  such  profound  msdom  and  understand- 
ing of  both  the  theatre  and  human  nature, 
that  no  one  has  added  anything  valuable  to  it 
for  a  hundred  years.  The  three  debaters 
are  the  Manager,  the  Poet,  and  the  Clown. 
The  Manager  insists  on  a  play  of  action,  that 
will  really  interest  all  the  varieties  of  men 
and  women  that  make  up  the  audience;  the 
Poet  insists  on  Idealism,  Romance,  and 
255 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

Beauty,  for  the  people  must  not  only  be  up- 
lifted, they  must  be  transported;  the  Clown 
wants  to  make  them  laugh,  even  if  it  ruins 
the  piece.  The  plays  of  Shakespeare — that 
is,  the  best  of  them — supremely  illustrate 
the  triple  combination.  They  are  full  of 
poetry  and  beauty,  alive  with  humour,  and 
swift  in  action.  The  audience  is  amused,  is 
excited,  and  is  inspired. 

No  modem  dramatist  has  reached  this 
Shakespearean  level  except  Rostand.  He  is 
equally  great  as  poet,  as  humorist,  as  prac- 
tical playwright.  No  man  of  our  time  has 
been  such  a  creative  force  in  literature,  and 
possessed  such  a  knowledge  of  the  require- 
ments of  the  stage.  It  is  inspiring  to  read 
his  dramas,  as  many  millions  of  readers 
know;  but  it  is  even  more  inspiring  to  see 
his  plays  performed,  for  they  were  all  writ- 
ten for  the  stage.  The  sheer  dexterity  of 
the  first  act  of  Cyrano y  the  way  the  throngs 
of  people  are  brought  in  and  brought  off  the 
stage,  the  way  the  general  confused  excite- 
ment rises  to  one  tremendous  climax,  would 
be  a  model  for  playwrights,  even  if  the  piece 
were  not  literature.  As  every  one  knows, 
256 


EDMOND  EOSTAND 

Cyrano  fights  a  duel  while  composing  a  bal- 
lade, exhibiting  equal  skill  with  his  hand  and 
with  his  mind.  It  is  symbolical  of  the  au- 
thor ;  in  the  very  whirlwind  of  action,  he  gives 
us  exquisite  poetry. 

There  was  a  foretaste  of  this  power  in  Les 
Romanesques,  which  is  a  little  masterpiece, 
and  which,  despite  its  eclipse  by  the  later 
works,  continues  to  hold  the  French  stage, 
and  perhaps  will  never  become  obsolete.  It 
is  beautiful,  it  is  charming,  it  is  humorous, 
but  above  all  it  is  interesting.  Most  pieces 
submitted  to  managers  are  either  specimens 
of  good  literary  composition  with  no  action, 
or  else  melodramas  or  farces  of  no  literary 
value.  In  writing  Les  Romanesques,  Ros- 
tand wisely  forsook  subjects  of  temporary 
interest  in  sociology  or  politics,  and  based  his 
work  on  the  fundamental  and  therefore  per- 
manent things  in  human  nature.  In  the 
poem  Transcendentalism,  Browning  com- 
pares the  writer  of  a  treatise  on  plants  with 
the  magician  who  fills  a  room  with  roses.  He 
leaves  us  in  no  doubt  as  to  which  of  these 
methods  should  characterise  the  poet.  Many 
authors  of  modern  analytical  plays  are  like 
257 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DRAMATISTS 

students  of  botany;  Rostand  creates  flowers. 
He  is  a  poet  and  a  playwright ;  but  above  all 
he  is  a  magician. 

It  is  true  that  in  La  Princesse  Lointaine 
and  in  La  Samaritaine  the  poet  transcends 
the  playwright;  but  one  of  these  was  an  ex- 
periment in  tragedy,  and  the  other  a  contri- 
bution to  religious  thought.  They  both 
helped  him  to  write  Cyrano  de  Bergerac. 

In  the  year  1842,  Browming  published  a 
lyric  called  Rudel  to  the  Lady  of  Tripoli. 
The  fact  that  Rostand  chose  the  same  subject 
for  La  Princesse  Lointaine  is  not  important ; 
but  it  is  important  to  observe,  how,  not  only 
in  this  play,  but  in  Cyrano  and  in  Chantecler, 
Browning's  philosophy  of  ** Success  through 
Failure '^  is  illustrated.  The  English  poet 
and  the  French  dramatist  have  much  in  com- 
mon; they  were  preoccupied  with  love,  real 
love;  they  believed  that  the  highest  success 
comes  only  through  failure ;  they  represented 
their  teachings  of  optimism  mainly  through 
Tragedy.  Browning  might  have  written 
English  words  corresponding  to  the  dying 
speech  of  Joffroy : 

Ah!  je  m'en  vais, — n'ayant  a  souhaiter  plus  rien! 
Merci,  Seigneur!  Merci,  Melissinde! — Combien, 
258 


EDMOND  ROSTAND 

Moins  heureux,  epuises  d'une  poursuite  vaine^ 
Meurent  sans  avoir  vu  leur  Princesse  lointaine ! 

During  the  last  decade  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  plays  founded  on  the  Bible  became 
increasingly  frequent.  Oscar  Wilde's  Sa- 
lome (1893),  Rostand's  La  Samaritaine 
(1897),  Sudermann's  Johannes  (1898), 
Stephen  Phillips's  Herod  (1900)  are  typical 
illustrations  of  a  growing  fashion.  The  most 
poetic  and  the  most  reverent  is  certainly  La 
Samaritaine,  though  it  lacks  the  dramatic  in- 
tensity of  Wilde 's  short  piece.  The  only  rea- 
son why  it  disappoints  is  because  no  one  has 
ever  yet  been  able  to  retell  a  Bible  story  and 
improve  it.  The  simplicity  of  the  Bible  nar- 
ratives cannot  be  matched.  For  Rostand's 
verse,  in  all  its  glory,  is  not  arrayed  like  one 
of  these. 

Yet  La  Samaritaine  is  a  tenderly  beautiful 
tribute  paid  by  a  man  of  genius ;  and  I  shall 
always  regret  that  I  never  heard  the  melodi- 
ous poetry  spoken  by  the  voice  of  gold. 

Rostand  himself  was  more  than  satisfied 
by  the  success  of  the  play.  In  the  printed 
version,  he  has  the  following  foreword:  **I 
thank  Madame  Sarah  Bernhardt,  who  was  a 
Flame  and  a  Prayer  ...  the  Parisian  pub- 
259 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DEAMATISTS 

lie,  whose  earnestness,  emotion,  and  intelli- 
gent excitement  in  responding  to  my  most 
subtle  meanings,  have  once  more  reassured 
the  Poets;  the  Critics,  who  gave  me  noble 
support. ' ' 

Have  once  more  reassured  the  poets — ^it  is 
as  a  rule  only  the  minor  and  the  unsuccessful 
poets  who  complain  of  the  public  attitude  to- 
ward their  work.  The  public  is  disposed  to 
greet  with  enthusiasm  poems  of  genius — 
nearly  all  great  poets  are  properly  ** placed'' 
by  the  public  during  their  lifetime.  The 
tiny  poets  who  attack  the  public  for  not  prais- 
ing and  appreciating  their  efforts  would  have 
no  complaint  to  make  if  they  could  write 
better. 

It  is  a  curious  thing,  in  the  present  high 
tide  of  the  drama,  and  remembering  that  the 
glory  of  English  literature  is  its  poetry,  that 
we  have  no  great  modern  English  dramas  in 
verse.  It  is  all  the  more  remarkable  because 
the  foremost  modern  French  dramatist  and 
the  foremost  modern  German  dramatist  wrote 
their  masterpieces  in  verse  form — Cyrano  de 
Bergerac  by  Rostand  and  Die  versunkene 
Glocke,  by  Hauptmann.  John  Masefield, 
when  he  writes  plays,  writes  them  in  prose, 
260 


EDMOND  EOSTAND 

with  only  slight  exceptions.  And  so,  for  the 
most  part  have  Synge,  Yeats,  Lord  Dunsany 
and  others.  George  Meredith  might  have 
written  poetic  dramas  in  the  EHzabethan 
manner.  Thomas  Hardy's  Dynasts  is  an  in- 
tellectual, rather  than  a  poetic  masterpiece — 
it  has  nothing  of  the  sublime,  emotional, 
thrilling,  transporting  power  of  Kostand. 
We  admire  the  author's  mind  more  than  the 
work. 

Eostand  was  not  an  unconscious  or  an  ac- 
cidental Eomantic.  He  had  his  own  pro- 
gramme, and  his  six  plays  represent  it.  He 
lifted  the  French  drama  and  the  French 
spirit  out  of  the  Slough  of  Despond,  and  led 
them,  like  Greatheart,  toward  the  Celestial 
City.  He  was  disgusted  with  the  cynicism, 
the  sensuality,  the  mockery  that  many  had 
come  to  believe  were  the  true  representation 
of  modern  French  literature.  In  the  year 
1912, 1  read  an  article  by  a  French  critic  who 
said  that  nowadays  the  only  possible  intelli- 
gent attitude  toward  the  so-called  **  great 
problems''  of  life  was  a  smile.  In  the  same 
year  I  read  a  good-tempered  criticism  of  a 
new  play  in  Paris,  where  the  critic  said  with 
a  yawn,  **  After  all.  Flesh  is  the  Queen  of 
261 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

Paris.  And  if  there  were  any  God,  he  would 
certainly  treat  our  Paris  as  he  treated  Sodom 
and  Gomorrah.'* 

The  prevailing  tone  of  blague  was  insup- 
portable to  Rostand.  He  knew  that  France 
needed  an  awakening.  His  plays,  poems,  and 
addresses  were  one  protest  against  Mockery 
— when  he  was  received  into  the  French 
Academy  on  4  June  1903,  his  speech  was  a 
call  to  arms,  **The  poison  of  to-day,  with 
which  we  have  no  longer  the  right  to  drug 
the  people,  is  that  delicious  essence  that 
stupefies  conviction  and  slays  energy.  We 
must  restore  passion.  Yes,  and  emotion, 
too,  which  really  is  not  absurd.  We  must  re- 
mind these  timid  Frenchmen,  who  are  always 
afraid  of  not  being  sufficiently  ironical,  that 
there  can  be  plenty  of  modern  wit  in  a  reso- 
lute eye. ' ' 

Little  did  he  know  how  soon  the  spirit  that 
he  incarnated  in  himself,  and  in  his  poetry 
would  be  needed  to  save  his  country  from 
slavery.  Apart  from  the  literary  elevation 
of  his  dramas,  Cyrano  de  Bergerac  during 
the  years  of  horror  was  worth  to  France  a 
dozen  generals  and  a  million  men.  All  the 
world  wondered  at  the  spirit  of  desperate 
262 


EDMOND  ROSTAND 

valour  and  astounding  tenacity  exhibited  by 
*  ^decadent''  France.  But  she  had  been  re- 
generated by  the  spirit  of  her  great  poet, 
and  the  opportunity  revealed  the  truth. 

In  spite  of,  and  partly  because  of,  his  popu- 
larity, many  French  critics  have  refused  him 
a  place  in  the  front  rank.  The  very  spirit 
that  he  fought  was  bound  to  sneer  at  him, 
knowing  that  the  two  could  not  live  together. 
But  that  is  not  the  chief  reason  for  so  much 
French  depreciation.  It  is  because,  he,  like 
Victor  Hugo,  fought  not  merely  against  the 
schoolmen,  but  against  the  national  literary 
instinct.  Many  Frenchmen  have  never  ad- 
mitted the  greatness  of  Victor  Hugo,  though 
he  is  one  of  the  idols  of  the  world ;  they  still 
believe  that  his  work  is  fustian.  I  remember 
in  1903  a  French  literary  man  telling  me  in 
all  seriousness  that  Victor  Hugo  was  mere 
sound  and  fury,  signifying  nothing;  nor  did 
he  refer  to  Ruy  Bias  and  Hernani:  he  said, 
**  Fifty  years  hence  every  line  of  Victor  Hugo 
will  be  forgotten,  while  Flaubert  will  be 
greater  than  ever.''  For  my  part,  I  cannot 
see  why  Frenchmen  should  not  be  proud  of 
both;  why  should  admiration  for  one  lessen 
the  other's  glory?  But  your  true  French- 
263 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

man  loves  the  lapidary  style;  and  for  this 
reason,  many  French  critics  cannot  see  Ros- 
tand, while  others  perhaps  are  afraid  to  sur- 
render. I  am  going  to  quote  a  letter  that 
I  received  from  a  distinguished  French  novel- 
ist and  essayist,  who  is  just  now  known  all 
over  the  world.  I  had  sent  him  a  criticism  of 
the  theatres  of  Paris  I  wrote  in  1912,  which 
I  had  written  after  seeing  five  or  six  typical 
triangle  plays,  followed  by  a  performance  of 
L'Aiglon. 

'*21  April  1912. 
*^I  thank  you  for  the  article  which  you 
were  kind  enough  to  send  me.  I  read  it  with 
great  interest  and  I  sympathise  with  your 
point  of  view.  I  believe  your  strictures  are 
both  fair  and  sound.  But  the  only  author 
whom  you  praise — Rostand — is  one  of  those 
whom  I  most  strongly  condemn.  If  it  is  true 
(and  I  firmly  believe  it  to  be)  that  the  theatre 
ought  to  be  the  mirror  of  its  time,  I  cannot 
reproach  the  Parisian  theatres  of  the  boule- 
vards for  representing  the  brutal  lack  of  mo- 
rality characteristic  of  the  society  there  rep- 
resented. And  from  this  point  of  view,  I  re- 
gard a  Bataille  as  the  most  significant  of  the 
Parisian  playwrights ;  for  he  best  represents 
264 


EDMOND  ROSTAND 

the  moral  anarchy  and  the  extreme  refine- 
ment of  intelligence,  where  we  now  find  the 
elite  (a  worldly  elite)  of  an  old  people,  very 
artistic,  very  human  and  very  corrupt.  I 
can  consider  him  (and  I  do  consider  him)  as 
an  enemy;  I  hope  for  the  destruction  of  the 
society  that  he  represents :  but  I  recognise  his 
art  and  his  sincerity:  he  does  Iiis  duty  like  an 
artist:  he  is  true  to  life.  The  Eostand  of 
UAiglon  and  of  La  Princesse  Lointaine  is 
not.  The  soul  of  his  dramas  consists  of  fan- 
faronnade,  declamation,  false  heroism,  false 
love,  every  sentiment  false.  He  is  a  brilliant 
virtuoso.  His  work,  often  defective,  has  al- 
ways eclat;  but  he  is  at  his  best  only  with 
the  fantasies  of  a  pianist :  whenever  he  wants 
to  give  a  fine  phrase  of  Beethoven,  a  simple 
and  profound  sentiment,  his  inadequacy  and 
his  superficiality  appear.  Nor  am  I  less  se- 
vere toward  the  interpreter  of  L^Aiglon,  this 
Sarah  Bernhardt,  for  I  regard  her  as  an  evil 
influence  on  the  French  poetic  drama.  The 
radiance  of  her  fame  throws  an  illusion  over 
her  lack  of  naturalness,  her  faulty  diction, 
her  foreign  accent,  her  real  coldness,  and  her 
monotonous,  hammered-out  art.  I  am  will- 
ing to  believe  that  her  defects  are  exagger- 
265 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DEAMATISTS 

ated  by  age;  but  it  is  precisely  her  defects 
that  people  admire  and  imitate.  She  has 
done  a  great  deal  of  harm,  and  she  makes 
matters  worse  by  her  deplorable  taste  in  pre- 
ferring false,  offensive  poetry.  The  hero  of 
my  novel  and  his  author  will  never  forgive 
her/' 

Although  I  have  read  many  adverse  French 
criticisms  of  Eostand,  I  think  this  letter  is 
not  only  the  ablest,  but  that  the  opposition 
to  his  work, — generally  felt  among  French 
critics — is  here  expressed  in  an  extraordi- 
narily concise  way.  Although  I  totally  dis- 
agree, it  is  perfectly  clear  why  the  writer  of 
it,  and  so  many  of  his  fellow-countrymen, 
take  that  position.  Eostand  offends  against 
their  classic  theories  of  art,  their  love  of  the 
sober  and  the  self-restrained,  their  decided 
preference  of  irony  over  enthusiasm — sure 
mark  of  sophistication;  they  like  smiles,  but 
they  hate  laughter.  It  is  for  the  same  rea- 
son that  Mr.  Santayana,  wholly  Latin  in 
blood  and  ideals,  cannot  endure  the  poetry 
of  Browning.  His  poems  **not  only  portray 
passion,  which  is  interesting,  but  they  betray 
it,  which  is  odious." 

266 


EDMOND  ROSTAND 

But  there  is  a  great,  outstanding  fact  to 
be  accounted  for — the  conquest  of  the  world 
by  Cyrano  de  Bergerac.  To  realise  now  the 
unparalleled  enthusiasm  of  the  first  night, 
I  refer  readers  to  Catulle  Mendes;  that 
grown-up  gamin  of  the  Boulevards,  who 
could  give  any  man  in  the  world  lessons  in 
blague,  skepticism,  indecency  and  insolence, 
was  swept  into  the  seventh  heaven  of  rap- 
ture— he  preserved  not  only  his  own  impres- 
sions in  print,  but  collected  others.  The  de- 
light of  the  audience  was  so  uncontrolled  that 
the  play  could  hardly  get '  on — the  nearest 
approach  to  it  in  America  is  the  behaviour  of 
the  spectators  when  a  touchdown  is  made  in 
a  football  game.  The  applause  in  the  the- 
atre on  that  memorable  night  was  heard  next 
day  in  the  remotest  parts  of  the  earth.  The 
play  appeared  on  every  foreign  stage — over 
half  a  million  copies  of  the  French  text  have 
been  sold,  and  it  has  been  translated  into  all 
languages.  While  I  am  writing  these  words, 
converts  are  being  made  in  many  countries. 
For  the  book  goes  everywhere. 

Rostand,  taking  an  almost  forgotten  his- 
torical figure,  (I  remember  in  my  youth  read- 
ing  Henry   Morley^s   edition   of    Gulliver^ s 
267 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

Travels,  with  its  interesting  appendix  on 
Cyrano  de  Bergerac),  created  a  new,  imper- 
ishable character  in  drama  and  in  literature. 
Critics  may  sneer  at  Rostand  ^s  art,  they  may 
attempt  to  *^  account  for  him  in  every  way 
hut  the  one  true  way,  hut  they  can  no  more 
drive  Cyrano  off  the  earth  than  they  can  get 
rid  of  d'Artagnan,  Jean  Valjean,  or  Falstaff. 
He  has  come  to  stay. 

Even  those  who  attack  Rostand  are  puz- 
zled by  the  variety  and  multiplicity  of  his  ac- 
complishments;  he  has  all  the  grandeur  and 
impromptu  power  of  Victor  Hugo,  but  then 
he  abounds  in  what  Hugo  had  not  a  trace  of 
— humour.  He  has  grace,  dexterity,  flexibil- 
ity, word-magic ;  he  uses  the  rigid  form  of  the 
Alexandrine  and  makes  it  supple ;  he  reaches 
the  vertiginous  heights  of  sublimity,  heroism, 
self-sacrifice,  and  adds  to  the  Genius  of  Ro- 
mance the  Genius  of  Humour.  All  kinds  of 
humour — for  he  can  defeat  his  rivals  and 
leave  them  the  choice  of  weapons. 

It  is  amusing  to  see  the  critics  trying  to 
explain  this.  M.  Blum,  a  French  dramatic 
critic,  says  that  Rostand  is  not  a  man  of 
genius,  but  an  extraordinary  collection  of  di- 
verse talents,  seldom  united  in  one  person. 
268 


EDMOND  ROSTAND 

M.  Adolphe  Brisson  once  made  a  pilgrim- 
age to  Cambo,  to  see  if  he  could  find  out  from 
the  author  the  reason  for  Cyrano's  world 
conquest.  On  his  way  he  meditated  as  fol- 
lows, as  he  reports  in  the  last  chapter  of 
Le  Theatre  et  Les  Moeurs-.  **That  we  loved, 
applauded,  acclaimed  Cyrano,  nothing  is 
easier  to  understand;  the  beauties  of  the 
work  justify  all  that.  But  that  from  day  to 
day  it  spread  immediately  all  over  the  world, 
that  it  was  translated  into  all  languages, 
played  not  only  in  large  cities,  but  in  the 
smallest  towns  and  in  America,  and  that 
everywhere  it  excited  the  same  enthusiasm; 
that  three  hundred  thousand  copies  of  the 
book  (1906),  something  unprecedented, 
should  have  been  sold  all  over  the  earth,  that 
the  name  of  the  author  traversed  the  globe 
with  the  rapidity  of  a  flash  of  lightning — 
all  this  is  unique  and  calls  for  an  explanation. 
For,  after  all,  we  have  other  masterpieces  as 
brilliant,  as  clever  as  Cyrano.  Why  have 
they  not  had  the  same  good  fortune!  Fame 
is  an  honest  fellow,  who  usually  walks  with 
slow  steps,  and  ordinarily  does  not  place  a 
crown  except  on  brows  mature,  with  whiten- 
ing hair.  Why,  when  Cyrano  appeared,  did 
269 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

Fame  suddenly  grow  dizzy  T'  Then,  being 
shown  in  the  presence  of  M.  et  Mme.  Rostand, 
he  plumped  the  question  direct,  **What  is 
there  in  Cyrano  to  account  for  its  sudden 
universal  conquest?  What  is  it  exactly  that 
foreigners  find  in  itl''  Rostand  himself  had 
no  explanation  to  offer ;  he  could  not  explain, 
said  M.  Brisson,  why  it  was  that  his  piece 
produced  exactly  the  same  effect  on  people 
quite  different,  the  English,  the  Danish,  the 
Slavs,  the  Turks,  the  Heidelberg  philosopher, 
and  the  pork-packer  from  Cincinnati.  **Was 
it  the  classic  simplicity  of  the  intrigue,  the 
mingling  of  wit  and  courage,  what  we  call 
le  panache,  the  generosity  of  the  hero,  the 
contrast  between  his  physical  ugliness  and 
his  moral  nobility,  this  antithesis  which 
pleases  men  because  they  think  that  they  all 
have  something  of  it  themselves?  But  these 
features  exist  in  other  works :  Triboulet  came 
before  Cyrano,  and  in  the  plays  of  de  Musset, 
there  is  not  less  feeling,  French  sprightliness, 
fantasy — Alors.  .  .  /' 

**Mme.  Edmond  Rostand,  who  listened  to 

my  dissertation  with  a  little,  half-mocking 

smile:    *  There   are   people   who    exhale    all 

around  them  sympathy,  simply  because  they 

270 


EDMOND  EOSTAND 

have  charm.  Don't  you  think  it  may  be  the 
same  with  things  of  the  mind!'  Parhleu, 
that  is  the  best  explanation,  the  true  one !  It 
explains  nothing  and  it  is  the  best  one.  For 
I  believe  that  a  work  of  art  has  a  soul  be- 
longing to  it,  which  attracts  or  repels,  and 
arouses  passionate  feeling.  One  may  sur- 
render, be  vanquished  by  a  painting,  a  statue, 
a  poem.  Between  fifteen  and  twenty  years 
of  age  I  was  hopelessly  in  love  with  the 
Mona  Lisa.'' 

Eichard  Mansfield  gave  an  admirable  and 
highly  intelligent  performance  of  Cyrano  de 
Bergerac  in  America;  M.  Le  Bargy  reached 
unexpected  heights ;  no  one  will  perhaps  ever 
reach  the  perfection  attained  by  Coquelin, 
who  was  a  great  artist,  ideally  fitted  to  the 
part,  and  who  had  the  advantage  of  long  and 
intimate  discussions  with  the  author ;  but  the 
piece  will  never  be  lost  to  the  stage,  and  will 
always  awaken  enthusiasm. 

It  is  particularly  unfortunate  that  an 
American  court,  a  Chicago  judge  presiding, 
decided  that  Eostand  had  not  written  Cyrano^ 
but  had  stolen  it  from  an  obscure  American 
writer.  We  may  laugh  at  this,  but  it  was  the 
cause  of  Mansfield  abandoning  the  play,  as 
271 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DKAMATISTS 

he  refused  to  pay  royalties  to  the  American 
** author,'^  and  it  may  prevent  any  American 
performances  in  the  future.  Only  last  year 
Edward  Vroom,  a  romantic  actor  of  talent, 
was  informed  that  he  would  be  sued  by  the 
widow  of  the  legal  author,  if  he  persisted  in 
his  preparations  to  produce  it. 

The  best  translation  ever  made  of  Cyrano 
de  Bergerac  is  undoubtedly  the  German  ver- 
sion by  Ludwig  Fulda;  it  has  been  Eng- 
lished many  times,  but  no  successful  trans- 
lation has  ever  been  published.  Yet  it  is  not 
impossible.  It  would  be  a  boon  to  have  a 
version  as  good  as  Bayard  Taylor's  transla- 
tion of  Faust,  or  one  equal  to  Constance  Gar- 
nett's  renderings  of  the  Russian  novelists. 
But  first-rate  translators  have  always 
been  more  rare  than  first-rate  creative 
authors. 

As  we  owe  to  Eichard  Mansfield  the  op- 
portunity to  see  Cyrano  on  the  American 
stage,  so  we  owe  to  Maude  Adams  the  Ameri- 
can presentations  of  UAiglon  and  Chante- 
cler.  She  was  loudly  denounced  for  attempt- 
ing the  latter,  but  I  admired  her  Chantecler 
even  more  than  her  UAiglon,  Physique  is 
important  perhaps,  but  not  necessary  to  per- 
272 


EDMOND  ROSTAND 

sons  in  the  audience  who  have  imagination; 
and  it  is  never  so  important  as  brains.  Mrs. 
Fiske  was  more  convincing  as  Tess  of  the 
D'Urhervilles  than  a  handsome  chorns  girl 
would  have  been;  in  fact,  everything  about 
her  was  Tess  except  her  photograph, 

No  man  has  a  soul  so  dead  that  it  cannot 
be  stirred  by  Cyrano,  Its  combination  of 
lyrical  beauty,  passion,  wit,  sentiment,  hu- 
mour, enthusiasm,  tragic  force,  pathos,  united 
in  one  divine  transport  of  moral  beauty — the 
Soul!  Even  under  those  ribs  of  death,  the 
boards  of  the  French  stage,  Rostand  awak- 
ened a  soul.  And  in  the  autumnal  garden, 
amid  the  falling  leaves,  and  the  chill  of  death, 
we  hear  the  voice  of  that  which  alone  is  as 
sublime  as  the  stars, — the  human  spirit. 

For  in  all  three  plays  we  have  Triumphant 
Failure. 

Professor  Nitze  quotes  a  poem  written  by 
Rostand  which  was  published  only  a  few 
hours  after  his  death,  and  harmonises  with 
the  spirit  in  all  his  work. 

Qu'un  peuple  d'hier 
Meure  pour  demain, 
C'est  a  rendre  fier 
Tout  le  genre  humain ! 
273 


ESSAYS  ON  MODEEN  DKAMATISTS 

I  know  I  ought  not  to  translate  this,  but  I 
cannot  help  trying. 

That  yesterday's  Race 
Should  die  for  to-morrow — 
That  gives  a  proud  face 
To  all  human  sorrow! 

Eostand  did  not  select  the  figure  of  L'Ai- 
glon  for  any  political  or  historical  reason, 
but  as  an  emblem  of  the  frustration  of  hu- 
manity. 

Grand  Dieu !  ce  n  'est  pas  une  cause 
Que  j'attaque  ou  que  je  defend  .  .  . 
Et  ceci  n'est  pas  autre  chose 
Que  I'histoire  d'un  pauvre  enfant. 

The  enormous  difficulties  of  presenting 
Chantecler  will  probably  militate  against  its 
life  on  the  stage;  but  in  many  ways,  both 
from  the  literary  and  spiritual  point  of  view, 
it  is  Eostand 's  greatest  work.  We  see  as  we 
saw  in  Wagner's  Meistersinger,  the  undying 
hatred  of  every  heaven-born  genius  for 
Pedantry  and  Affectation.  Let  the  second- 
rate  artists  stick  to  the  rules — they  need 
them.  Let  the  second-rate  critics  measure 
genius  with  the  rules,  they  have  no  other 
274 


EDMOND  EOSTAND 

standard.  But  the  man  of  original  creative 
power  is  always  greater  than  the  rules;  as 
in  the  moral  world,  Love  is  greater  than  Law. 
In  the  play  Chantecler,  the  Peacock  is  like 
Beckmesser ;  the  scene  infallibly  reminds  one 
of  the  part  played  by  the  picayune  pedant  in 
the  music-drama.  In  that  famous  afternoon 
tea — the  greatest  *  *  party  * '  ever  known  in  lit- 
erature, Victor  Hugo  might  have  poured  out 
his  scorn  on  the  pedants  and  the  prudes  and 
the  parlour  poets ;  he  might  too  have  thought 
of  the  sublime  scene  where  the  Cock  protects 
the  venomous  cowards  from  the  hawk;  but 
he  could  not  even  have  imagined  the  mar- 
vellous humour  that  follows  the  terrific  fight, 
like  sunshine  after  storm.  The  guests  are 
all  going;  Chantecler,  with  a  fine  mot,  de- 
parts with  the  hen  pheasant ;  the  Guinea-hen 
hostess,  just  as  the  curtain  is  about  to  fall, 
says,  *^This  is  the  most  successful  fete  ever 
known ! ' '  Then,  amid  the  brouhaha  of  leave- 
taking,  the  solemn  Magpie-Usher  announces 
an  arrival : 

The  Tortoise! 

and  the  curtain  falls. 

As  every  one  knows,  Eo stand  conceived  the 
275 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

idea  of  this  drama  merely  by  gazing,  in  the 
course  of  a  country  walk,  at  a  barn-yard. 
These  humble  creatures  displayed  human  na- 
ture to  the  imaginative  eyes  of  the  poet.  *  *In 
1901,  while  taking  a  walk  in  the  outskirts  of 
Cambo,  I  was  passing  a  humble  farm  when  I 
suddenly  stopped  before  the  barnyard.  It 
was  just  an  ordinary  barnyard,  containing 
the  usual  pigeon  loft,  wire  nettings,  manure 
pile,  and  within,  the  animals,  hens,  ducks, 
guinea-fowl,  geese,  turkeys,  a  cat  asleep,  a 
dog  wandering  about;  in  brief,  a  common 
spectacle.  I  watched  with  interest,  when 
suddenly  in  stalked  the  cock.  He  entered 
proudly,  boldly,  like  a  ruler,  with  disdain  in 
his  eye,  and  a  certain  rhythmic  movement  of 
the  head  which  produced  the  irresistible  im- 
pression of  a  hero.  He  advanced  like  a  buc- 
caneer, like  a  man  in  quest  of  adventure,  a 
king  among  his  subjects.  In  a  flash  I  saw 
in  this  spectacle  a  play.  I  returned  to  the 
barnyard  many  times,  and  rapidly  the  frame- 
work of  the  play  was  constructed  in  my 
mind. '  * 

That  afternoon  walk  was  a  great  day  in 
the  history  of  literature. 

We  must  go  back  to  La  Fontaine  for  any- 
276 


EDMOND  ROSTAND 

thing  approaching  this  human  manipulation 
of  the  animal  kingdom;  and  Eostand  rises 
higher  than  either  La  Fontaine  or  Rudyard 
Kipling.  For  the  old  fabulist  indicated  our 
undeniable  likeness  to  the  instinctive  selfish- 
ness of  the  beasts;  Kipling  drew  his  usual 
lesson  of  industry  and  practical  wisdom ;  Ros- 
tand gave  us  a  spiritual  interpretation  of 
life. 

Chant ecler  is  man  doing  his  work  in  the 
world,  doing  it  anyhow,  doing  it  for  the  sake 
of  the  work  finally,  rather  than  for  the  re- 
ward; doing  it  first  conceitedly,  then  despair- 
ingly, finally  triumphantly.  For  work  is 
more  necessary  to  the  worker  than  to  any 
possible  recipient  of  its  product.  The  Hen- 
Pheasant  is  jealous  of  his  absorption  in  his 
career,  she  wants  him  to  put  love-o'  women 
first,  but  in  the  end  she  is  glad  to  die  for 
him.  The  dog  is  a  philosopher,  and  a  good 
fellow.  The  guinea-hen  is  a  stupid  social 
climber,  cursed  with  affectations.  The  night- 
birds  prefer  darkness  to  light,  because  their 
works  are  evil.  The  blackbird  is  the  Pari- 
sian mocker — he  may  be  either  critic  or 
dramatist. 

The  oftener  one  reads  the  three  master- 
277 


ESSAYS  ON  MODERN  DRAMATISTS 

pieces  of  Rostand,  the  greater  they  seem. 
And  curiously  enough,  although  they  abound 
in  individual  and  scattered  jewels  of  wit,  wis- 
dom and  poetry,  the  whole  is  greater  than  the 
parts.  In  considering  this  unique  personal- 
ity, many  are  amazed  and  many  doubt.  But 
the  optimism  of  the  man  should  find  a  vibrat- 
ting  response  in  the  mind  of  the  reader.  It 
is  beyond  all  expression  fortunate  that  such 
genius  should  have  been  given  to  the  world, 
that  France  should  have  had  the  honour  of 
producing  a  writer  worthy  to  rank  with  the 
giant  Elizabethans  in  England ;  but  it  is  still 
more  fortunate  that,  despite  the  nibbling 
tooth  of  criticism,  the  whole  world  should 
have  given  him  homage.  For  he  spoke  di- 
rectly to  the  conscience,  the  spirit,  the  re- 
ligious life  of  man ;  the  universal  acclaim  that 
greeted  his  voice,  is  proof  that  under  all  the 
materialism  and  selfishness  and  vulgarity 
and  baseness  of  the  human  race  there  is  a 
Soul. 


PBIKTXD  IN   THX  T7KITBD  STATES   07  AMEBICA 

278 


14  DAY  USE 

LOAN  DEPT. 

Renewed  books  are  sub  jectto^im^^__ 


General  U^t^ 
Uoi'^rsity  of  California 

Berkeley 


Tti     /bV^J 


